There is no Sanity Clause.

I can be a troubled soul, and at times as high as a kite, then get serious, concerned, or genuinely interested in the futility of life. I can laugh at it too.

Ha Ha Ha you swine.

If I am alone I talk to myself, walk like Max Bygraves, dance like Red Buttons, and dismiss imaginary verbal assailants out loud.

Whilst driving, my steering wheel is a drum kit, the dash-board the cymbal and I chorus with candour.
I sometimes shout out loud in a Tourettestic fashion at professional meetings and immediately disguise it with an artificial cough or two.

I whistle at people with my lips in a circular fashion and when they look round, its continuation is recognised as the classic ballad Love Grows Where my Rosemary Goes, from my pouting pursed lips.
I am not crazy though.
I am not.
Not now.

Not any more, am I only able to drink from a teacup that must have a teaspoon in it, even although it pokes my eye.
Not anymore must I not drink the bottom centimetre, or 10 millimetres (construction industry only) of liquid from any vessel ( 3 letters).

When I was younger I so much wanted to have a psychiatric disorder. ( Sing to the tune of HELP: copyright Lennon, McCartney)
Manic Depressiveness was sought, as was Schizophrenia, Paranoia, Neuroses and Psychosis.
Tests proved fruitless. How do you like them apples?
Except for one thing.
The best they could come up with was anxiety. A huge Exorcist style brain scan for pifflinn anxiety.
Anxiety, what type of hell on earth was that to endure?
A torturous existence comparable only to the infinite toil of the terrified souls of Hades.

I don’t think so.

Worst case scenario? A panic attack.
Remedy? A brown paper bag.

Not exactly angst Van Gough style. ( See Michael Gough- Albert the Butler in Batman with Michael Keaton)

Shoplifting, I gave that a go.
Specialising in suitcases.
The bigger the suitcase the faster the rush of adrenaline. Some times two suitcases.
Does anyone want to by a suitcase?
I have three left, classic design.
Filofax pockets.

I so much wanted to be insane. Please God, I prayed, let me wake up insane in the morning.

I used to keep the company of mad people, not mad zany, but, mad scary, mad violent, and mad murderers, but the salt of the earth just the same. I had joined a writing group.
I organised funding for a little paperback book, containing stories about going to the shops, recycling Jewish teeth, the second coming of Lazarus and how to make a bogie. 97 pages for 50p

I still keep that kind of company, and it’s a secret.
It never used to be.
One is only as sick as ones secrets, the saying goes.
I don’t have any.
I don’t.
I am an open book.
I am.

Ok there is some stuff.
But most of it is out there.
On this blog.
Most of it.
But there is some stuff.
Not crazy stuff.

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5 thoughts on “There is no Sanity Clause.

  1. Laugh out loud funny, but serious and true all at once. I really like this, and the link. You’re a writer, as Kevin said.

  2. Pingback: There is no Sanity Clause. (via Chaserjay) « Chaserjay

  3. Ai Yi Yi! I’m tongue-tied. All I can say for the moment is, “So far this is my fave of all CJ’s posts!”

    I agree with all that Kay said, plus – I’d like to see a book on my bookshelf with your name on the title page.

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