Surinam Toads

I am an intensely curious person. So curious, in fact, that once, I stumbled across a random video about a species of toad whose babies emerge from crater-like holes in its back. Naturally, I couldn’t rest until I knew everything there was to know about the Surinam toad. For two days, every spare moment was devoted to this bizarre amphibian. Not only does it give birth from its back (a sentence I never thought I’d write), but it’s also camouflaged to blend seamlessly with leaf litter in muddy water. Oh, and it’s an ambush hunter. It just lies in wait, being all patient and sneaky, until some unfortunate prey meanders too close. I could go on, but most people would glaze over, so I’ll spare you.

That’s just how I am. When something catches my fancy, it consumes me. I’ve been like this since I was a kid. Maybe it’s because I’ve distrusted adult-provided information ever since the Great Santa Debate of third grade. I was a staunch believer—until some adult, out of pity, pulled me aside told me the facts. From then on, everything adults told me became suspect and unreliable at best.

Take science class, for example. We were taught that humans breathe oxygen, which then magically goes into the bloodstream and keeps us alive. Yeah, right. I wasn’t buying it. How does that even happen? Does the oxygen just poof its way into the blood? At the time—before the internet and in my small Ohio town—there was no way to fact-check these suspicious claims. Even our library was mostly just novels and children’s books.

Fast forward to college. I was a junior sitting in anatomy and physiology class when the answer hit me like a ton of bricks. Diffusion. That’s the magic trick. Oxygen molecules move from areas of high concentration (lungs) to lower concentration (bloodstream). Simple chemistry. Mind blown.

I hadn’t read the textbook before the lecture, so this revelation took me completely by surprise. I was mesmerized by the entire lecture, while everyone else seemed… utterly unimpressed. I glanced around, expecting my classmates to be equally awestruck. Nope. Up front, a row of cassette recorders dutifully captured the lecture (this was pre-internet, kids). Behind them, diligent note-takers scribbled away. Further back, people looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. One guy by the door was asleep.

Meanwhile, I’d stopped taking notes halfway through. I didn’t care about the test anymore. I was too busy marveling at how oxygen gets into the blood.

That day, I realized something uncomfortable about myself: I might be a weirdo. Sure, I’d had inklings before, but this was the moment it hit me. My insatiable curiosity—this compulsion to chase answers until I feel a deep, soul-satisfying satiety—set me apart. It’s the kind of curiosity that disrupts your life, sending you down rabbit holes about toads with crater-back babies.

By my late twenties, I started wondering if this was a diagnosable condition. Is “pathological curiosity” a thing? Spoiler: still no results on that front, but I check periodically.

And so, I ask—are there others like me? If you’re out there, where are you? We need to find each other. Start a support group. Hold AA-style meetings.

“Hi, I’m Diana, and I’m intensely curious. I now know everything there is to know about Surinam toads.”

Your turn.


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