The upshot to being bat shit crazy is that at least I make it look good and, with having recently spent my rent on a Burberry purse, it now looks quite fashionable as well. One of the areas in which I really excel is reading meaning into things that have none. I can glance at a Cold Cut Combo and convince myself that life is heading in the absolute wrong direction, or read a tragic love story into a 7-Layer Burrito. In fact, I am guilty of having done so recently and while it wasn’t a Taco Bell burrito, it still gave me the runs.
I have always assumed that everything has a meaning and have ended up in some awkward situations as a result. Take the time an ex-boyfriend posted a picture of a gummy bear on his Facebook page and I assumed we were getting back together in time for a July wedding. That made for an awkward outreach, I’ll tell you what. Or, consider when I thought I was making new Japanese friends but was slapped with a $200 bill at the end of the night for talking to prostitutes. I thought they wanted to be friends. Then there was the time I just couldn’t figure out why all the men driving by me were staring. Actually, there was some meaning behind that–my skirt was tucked into my underwear.
Over-analyzing situations is bad, but the worst is reading meaning into something that doesn’t actually exist, or never did. I think that might be part of the clinical diagnosis of insanity, but I don’t know; I’m not a medical professional, I just need one. Non-existent and meaningless is a triple threat and if you’re wondering where the triple comes from, don’t, it doesn’t exist. My proclivities toward this kind of craziness happens most when I wake up on a park bench in Memory Lane with a fierce how-could-things-be-different hangover.
As it turns out, I have spent most of my life dwelling on the past. Are you surprised I didn’t say drunk? I am a little bit too, and speaking of alcohol, it certainly doesn’t help.
That one goes to 11…
On any given day, when I’m not thinking about making chain-mail battle outfits for my cat, I’m thinking about the ‘what if’ instead of the ‘what is.’ Sure, this perspective comes in handy when you’re trying to turn a sheet of fabric into a fringed feline overcoat, but it doesn’t help in most other circumstances. I easily exert more emotion on situations that have ceased to be than on situations that may be, and the ‘what could be’ is almost always tied to what no longer can. It’s like obsessing over an encounter with a quadracorn that you know never existed in the first instance—except that one time on drugs.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m too tired to continue believing that this winged quadracorn (pegacorn? quadrasus?) is anything more than an overweight jackass with a sparkly wig on. It’s high time I found my way back to reality where—fortunately—there is a bar on every corner. Cheers to being here.