It’s “How hard are you working to hide that you’re just like me?”
And the answer, when you find it, is always a little bit sad. And a little bit beautiful. And never, ever weird at all.
The porn star who still calls his mother every Sunday. The survivalist who irons his shirts. The witch who worries about her pension plan.
And in that moment, he wasn’t a cult leader. He was a lonely man with a hobby. The weirdest thing wasn’t the polygamy. It was the profound, aching normality underneath.
Because the real question isn’t “Why are you different?”
“This one’s a misprint,” he whispered. “The queen’s eye is half a millimetre too low. Worth about eight dollars.”
But after a while, you stop searching for the weird. You realise the weird is easy. It’s neon and loud and wants to be seen.