Crazy Concerns

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m crazy. I mean, in some capacity. I know that I am. I’m mental about things like my to-do lists, and I get very annoyed when my hands are sticky and I’m not allowed to wash them.  But there are a hundred little things that I do every day, that I think every day which I keep very close to the chest.  I’m not actually sure how many of these things actually make me crazy, but something has to be said about my automatic and passionate instinct to keep all these things a secret.  I mean, I’m talking about them, but I won’t actually tell you, because the idea of telling makes me feel a little bit sick. So, either, I’m crazy and it’s a good idea for me to hide what I do because people would suggest that I be locked away for my own safety. Or, I’m not crazy for what I do, but my instinct to hide actually makes me a bit crazy.

I don’t know.  It’s very likely that just trying to figure out if I’m crazy is the fact that actually makes me crazy.  One day, this blog will just be a video of me being carted off in a straight-jacket, doped to the gills.  A doctor will later shake his head and report, “She wouldn’t have gone crazy, if only she had stopped wondering if she were crazy.” I will be a tragic, slightly ironic warning tale for future generations.  And you lot can proudly, or shamefully, say you know me when.

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