Batshit crazy: a longwinded explanation

Anyone who knows me in real life probably doesn't even question the fact that I'm batshit crazy. Probably because I say things like "I'm a poet. I have an MFA in being depressed and drinking!" and then, when my sister suggests that I enjoy being depressed, remind her that as a poet  I must  be a broken shard of a human being (my poetry is significantly better than that phrase, I promise). See, the thing is, I got this useless degree, and now I am only marginally employable and overeducated. I spend a LOT of time with my writerly things: my computer, my typewriter, my different notebooks and pens for each specific type of writing (you know, one for jotting down notes, one for poem drafts, one for journalling, one for other more personal journalling, one for journalling about poem drafts-- you get the point, right?). Spending so much time without human contact makes me a little weird sometimes.


It seems I have this weird disconnect between the things I say and what I mean. Like, my brain moves at its own strange pace. When I try to explain intricate things I lose track of what I'm saying, or I get off on a tangent and forget my original point. The funniest examples, and the ones that make my siblings say I'm batshit crazy, are the ones where my brain just gives up and offers my mouth a shortcut to what I mean to say. Once, when my sister was driving me around and I was missing my little car that had recently blown a head gasket, and I couldn't figure out a way to ever afford a car again, and my sister and I were not even remotely talking about anything that had to do with the subject, I turned to her and said "Maybe I should just get a sugar daddy." I mean, out of nowhere. It was like my brain just assumed she had heard it play out all the other options for affording a vehicle I hadn't audibly expressed desire for, and was like, "skip to the point, girl." 


Another time, I was standing on the bus stop with my brother and he was starting one of his long, rambling rants about how he's studying engineering and math and logic and boring shit, and is going to have a job one day. I told him to shut up about his math research, because math had already been discovered, and he responded in detail with how wrong I was. So, I started gently toning him out by listing all the ways I could fix up my apartment, and I was telling him that I can't get rid of this table I have that's totally in the way because that's where the hamster cage goes. He was all, "Wait, when did you get a hamster?" and I had to confess that I didn't have one yet. I just had imagination hamsters, which are better because I don't have to watch them eat their own poop and they don't stink or run in the squeaky wheel all night, but they're also not as good because you can't pet them or watch them stuff shit in their cheek pouches. I watched as my brother almost crapped himself laughing at me. Then, I told him to shut up because math is imaginary too, and he makes shit up all the time, like numbers and zero. 


The thing is, I'm pretty sure the batshit crazy is genetic. See, I spent the day with my mother a couple weeks ago,  because I went to a new endocrinologist and I wanted some company in case he was as shitty as the last doctor I went to. This maybe wasn't the best idea because my mom has some kind of weird body dysmorphia where she's like a size 8 but she thinks she's as big as a house. She swears her nutritionist told her she'll never be thin, but I'm pretty sure, having been a patient of the man, that he probably told her something like she won't go below the weight she is, or she won't be as thin as she was 40 years ago, or something healthy like that. Anyway, I brought her into the endocrinologist fully expecting her to be a little weird.


To start with, we sat in the waiting room with several older Staten Island ladies. Every time one of them would speak, my mother would roll her eyes and whisper snarky comments about their accents and how unintelligent they were. At first this annoyed the crap out of me, because my mother is so very judgmental. But then I realized the women in the waiting room were idiots and I had a good laugh about it. BONDING WITH MOMMY. 


Then, when we met with the doctor, he began asking weight-related questions. He asked about who in my family had weight problems, and I said there are endocrine weight issues on both sides of my family. My mom suggested she also had a weight problem, even though I was actually referring to her mother who had a thyroid problem. The doctor looked at my mother like she had just grown a unicorn horn and starting farting out rainbows. He asked her weight, and told her she was barely overweight for her height and age. I may have told the doctor that she's crazy and has body dysmorphia. He seemed to have a good sense of humor about it. 


Then he asked me how long I've had a weight problem. I paused to think about it, wondering if I should mention having always been a chubby kid, or if I should go with when I started having symptoms of PCOS, or when I actually started gaining weight at an abnormal rate. Before I could answer, my mother told him that I've had a weight problem since I was 5 days old. I sort of wish I had a camera to capture the doctor's face. She insisted that I gained almost a whole pound a week from birth (which I find incredibly hard to believe)  and that my pediatrician was all like, "omg lady what are you feeding this kid?" But, um...babies are supposed to gain weight. It's not really abnormal for them to do so. The poor doctor looked mortified for me, and just kept making jokes and explaining to my mother that these kinds of medical issues are very emotional for the patient and stuff.


I would have been furious at my mother, but then later when she asked me if she'd been butting in too much, I realized that my mother is priceless. I mean, aside from the fact that she's crazy out of love, she gives me a built in excuse. I'm sorry I tone out everything you say and then interrupt loudly to talk about my imaginary pets, but my mom is batshit crazy. It's genetic. Also, I'm not fat because I overeat or anything. I was BORN THIS WAY. 


Well, I'm off to cuddle with my imagination hamsters. They just got a new math wheel to run in (because math is fake.) I'll leave you with this random image of Chamillionaire. Those teeth!