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The guilt of being broken is breaking, all mental, stupid, wasteful, an endless negative feedback loop, ourobouro for real. Catherine Zeta Jones Douglas is crazy bitch but rich, and I'm neither, everyone has a thing, right? Sutures, supplant, supplicant, and I'm using that word right, right? Look at all these rights, right?, left with an aching need for validation of some sort, what we're all looking for, yes? Yes. Compulsive thinking, my psychiatrist said it is actually good for me, helps me be the guilt-ridden, hyperachiever that I am; but I have to admit: I'm not too sure about those types, people who delve into the psyche, now medicate! Wish mine would, but no, I don't need a mood stabilizer, because I'm not manic or depressive, no uppers or downers for me, I'm certifiably fine, just in touch with my existential side, and maybe a hair too smart but whaddaygonndo. Pay another co-pay to learn that I'm well-adjusted, just everyone around me is mad?? Ha ha, you fell for it, insurance don't come with no meaningful mental health benefits! I once had a boyfriend who said I was ultra-sane and hyper-rational, which sounds like a fair characterization, but fuck 'im, you know, because I cannot love someone who cannot love my crazy, let alone not see it. And I can't pay a shrink on the same basis. And if being a little bent is what has kept me so straight all these years? Fuck that ideology, too, because, let's face it: this world has enough ideology. My man is good and he takes care of me when I'm crazy, and if I'm crazy, he is probably doing double duty. But I'm duty-free, like a commodity. Silliness, all of it.

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