I meticulously eat all the whites off my fried eggs then shove the intact yolk into my mouth. Mostly because I hate yolking the other food on the plate and fried eggs are best hot. I have converted my husband. Everyone else seems to think it’s weird.

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I process insect vomit for a day job

I eat bell peppers like apples. Just wash it and eat it, no cutting required.

I just realised that I probably wouldn’t realise it was strange, I might have to ask someone who knows me

I shave the parts of my chest within 10cm of my nipples, so that suction toys stay on properly.

So apparently my girlfriend thinks it’s weird my family keeps a knife in the toilet. You know, just in case it doesn’t flush down. I thought everybody did this.

When I’m alone I’ll wear a full suit, because dressing up makes me feel nice, but I lack the courage to go full “retro men’s fashion enthusiast” and dress up like it’s 1939

I don’t mow my lawn.

Fully invested in the no lawn movement, I’ve been slowly replacing my grass with “no-mow” fine fescue grasses that fall over when they grow long instead of standing up straight. They grow slowly and are meant to not be mowed most of the summer season, just a couple times in the spring and cut down low in the fall.

Between that and using shredded leaves as mulch in my flower beds or lasagna mulching to create a new flower bed, my neighbors definitely think I’m a bit off.

According to my husband and all my friends, the weirdest thing about me is my name for a sandwich.

Apparently, everyone else calls it a ‘grilled cheese’. I have always called it by it’s proper name, a ‘toasted cheese’.

If you make it in a panini press, then it is a grilled cheese. But if you make a sandwich by buttering each side and toasting it in a pan on the stove until the cheese melts, then it is a toasted cheese. But every time I say ‘toasted cheese’, people look at me as though I have grown another head.

One day I saw advertised these birdhouses with little accordion-like appendages, the same kind most air conditioners have that allow them to fit into windows, and I bought several of these, one per window. On the side facing the outdoors, birds find a little hole and can venture inside, as is typical of a birdhouse. On the side facing the inside of my home, the same birdhouses have tiny windows, like those one-way viewers hotel doors have, that allow anyone to see into the birdhouses, as well as the secretly built option to open it like a door, either while no bird is inside (makes cleaning them easy) or, if someone for some reason felt devious (I wouldn’t, and would never give anyone the key to said birdhouse doors), while a bird was in there, which would force it to honor the will of the owner of the home with all the said birdhouses (again, I would never use this feature, unless maybe a bird was injured or something and needed help).

Alright, with all that said… while I have no plans to ditch any of the birdhouses, I will admit I’ve received complaints that the combination of a few dozen birdhouses in unison is noisy in the morning, like you wake up at six in the morning and it sounds like the birdie house of commons. People say such bird hospitality is unbecoming of an inn attendant. Is it though? Is it? That said, this is usually when the noise cancellers aren’t working.

I’m a chronic joint-popper. Fingers, toes, neck, and back are all pretty standard fare for most people. But a lot of people get weirded out when I pop my shoulders, elbows, ankles, knees, or hips. Sometimes I can make something around my sternum pop, but usually only after waking up from a long sleep.

When I type on the keyboard I often always type F at the end and immediately backspace. I don’t understand why I do it and I can’t stop doing it.

Eat fries first, main dish later, always. Good reason though: usually the main dish holds heat much longer than fries do, and it probably won’t get as gross as fries do.

Cold fries are tasteless and soggy. A warm burger is still good.

Masturbate 1 to 3 times a day. Sometimes with, sometimes without porn or erotic fiction. Wife doesn’t know. She’s not interested in sex. I’m 58.