On Being Crazy

I have a psychologist friend who recommended me to a psychologist friend of hers; she told her friend I would be a most interesting case to observe. This psychologist friend of my psychologist friend – let’s call her Fran – had a nice and long chat with me and as I am prone to do, I discharged my charm upon her, and by the time the third date (session) was done with ( along with many other things… You have my number, Fran. I bet you still have it, even after this long) I was promptly diagnosed with “not quite dissocial personality disorder” and bought off with some fun meds. So naturally I ate the meds like candy (had a jolly good time), and googled the term.

Wikipedia says this.

And of course, since I enjoy clicking and I enjoy reading, I kept on clicking on the other links and read them all.

Things like this, this, this, this and this.

What is “superficial charm” anyway? What differentiates superficial and non-superficial charm? Why is passive aggressiveness a personality disorder? How strange.

Also, I think my father is a psychopath. But I suppose I won’t mention it to him. We’re all a bunch of crazies anyway, and we get along wonderfully. CyberDust from some online forum that I totally spilled my guts at that one time while I was sopping drunk told me that I was a nutjob who was overly dependent on my crazy mute daddy and that I should just hang myself and do the world a favor. Of course I told him “A sharp tongue does not mean you have a keen mind” and bawled my woes to dear Johnnie. The next day I pretty much forgot most everything about it and went bowling with my girlfriend.

Those aren’t the only times people have said I was nuts though. Everyone who knows me even slightly tells me, “You have issues.”

Please. I have no children. I am one hundred percent sure of it. It is impossible for me to have any children. Stop telling me that I do.

On the other hand, I have plenty of magazines at home. PC World, anybody?

Seriously, people keep telling me that I have a problem but they never identify it. Are they afraid? I’m not about to hit them, though I’ve been known to break a few noses. But that was long ago when I was still wielding, quite inexpertly (hence the injuries to other people), the softball bat. I unfortunately retired when I (accidentally!) broke someones fibula. I still don’t know where a fibula is to this day.

Back to the “issues”. I do understand that there are things going on in my life that some people might find strange, offensive, inexplicable, or any combination of the words. Offensiplicable, perhaps. I could describe a few here, but I won’t, because I don’t care. Maybe that’s the zenith of the situation right there. I don’t care. Floating through life like a dandelion seed, that’s a pretty nice description of what I do, except my life has a lot more blood and tears involved. But don’t worry, none of it is mine.

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