-Gnarls Barkley
Now I know I have alluded to this before – my insanity that is – but heed this call: she has only grown in size, and is no longer containable within the four paper-cut-sharp edges of Fivestar emblazoned notebook paper, the wire men bound to patrol the border can no longer keep the vowels of hysteria back. Sigmund Freud pinched the smoke from his trademark cigar to stand in between the parted legs of my neurosis, only his "talk therapy" failed to rehabilitate. With his book closed and dismissed, I pull in close the representatives of all external given explanations for my of late mental state; they huddle in a half-moon shape around my crossed leg figure. Their fear physically obvious, I give pity, and my eyes soften around the corners; I lend my ears. One black and shiny fuck-me-heel tips on its side, a discarded lace top sprayed with puffs of expensive hovers in the corner, and the two legs of dark jeans snake around the floor fan. My thighs hide behind wide-leg grey sweat pants, paired with a sea green, bleach-stained tank top, dutifully worn to conceal the tattoos (a result of my mother's pleas). I silence the self-indulgent sounds of the keyboard. The explanations have the floor now.
First to step to the shrunken podium is the explanation of my mother, whose opinion I still shamefully absorb. The miniaturized version of my womb-giver stands with legs shoulder-width apart, the microphone scratches, and the sounds of her voice are sent an octave higher. I flick the crumbs of Cheerio's and raisins from her shoulder.
"You have too much time on your hands." I nod in recognition and consider her mini narration – an accurate excuse for the recent pseudo-psychosis. The unemployed and even those unemployed who devote their mornings to job-chasing, have more than the necessary amount of free time with which to play, or with which to invite the crazy. A round of applause and a slight growl from my screwed on smile, and she takes her seat, sans the edible scraps.
The next representative waddles to the podium; his stride resembles that of a pregnant penguin, compressed by her predetermined fate with biology. His nametag reads "The Ex-Boyfriend." The squat presence has come to speak on the behalf of past boyfriends, but when corrected, I learn he represents all ex-lovers, regardless of their level of commitment to my life story. I cannot resist a tilted pout and full eye roll. A throat clear and squinted gaze is reciprocated.
"You are just fucking crazy." I arch both eyebrows and wave my hand in mock gratitude. He responds with identical middle fingers, and loud whoops of approval rise from his fellow group members. In the name of diplomacy I consider his accusation. Based on prior verbal confrontations with ex-lovers, the declaration holds a grain of truth, but after a recall of the definition prior, I dismiss their claim with a sequence of finger flicks through their designated section.
The final delegate hunches over, with hands placed palms down on the podium, her face low, mouse brown hair falls, and the soft part of her lips grazes the microphone. She announces that she is the agent for BFF Inc. At this introduction the bolts rust from the corners of my mouth, and the braces-given smile, with the slight lost retainer-given gap, spreads. I cup my hands in a shield around the mini speaker; a skin colored guard to protect her from the wounded boos now resonating from the ex-boyfriend division.
"You may be a psychotic bitch, but we still love you." A loud whoosh exits my pursed lips; I reach for the chilled bottle of vodka, set on ice for the conclusion of the conference, and line a series of thimbles along the stage. Topped off with the cool liquid, I push each forward to the remaining groups and call for a cheer. "To the insane, the crazy, and the psychotic – may they always be loved. Who wants to be normal anyway? Here is to abnormal." Gulp.
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