Peculiar Girl

There she was: stuck in the rain again. Her bright pink umbrella held in midair by her nimble fingers, covering the high, curly, dirty-blonde bun perched upon her head. The wind picked up again and her flower-printed skirt and that turquoise t-shirt that I loved so much fluttered softly while she stood stuck in place like a tree.

She wasn't what you would call different, but peculiar. Maybe it was her rainbow knee-high socks that grasped people's attention or somehow she would always be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe the fact that she always had this 'in the clouds' expression on her pretty pale face.

Call her what you will but I call her amazing. The way she always had a story to tell every time I talked to her, or how she always has this wild and vivid imagination which fit well with her wonderful personality. Many people didn't really accept who she was because she didn't fit the 'normal' of today's society but she never really cared about the normal.

She was happy being 'that one weird girl'; it made her who she was. It's funny how everyone assumes they're normal but she always says: "No one is ever normal." And it's true, no one is normal. She just accepts it more than others. Maybe that's why she would always be: My peculiar girl.