I think everyone in the world is a little crazy. I think you have to be to survive. Those people who have nervous breakdowns and go up bell towers with high-powered rifles are the people who were completely sane and couldn’t take the pressure. Very sane people will always eventually snap because they don’t fit the world. You can imagine some guy quietly sitting there filling out form G-57. Every day it’s form G-57. The same form. Again and again. And his mind begins to wander. And he’s thinking that the pot plant on his desk is looking a little withered and worn. And he’s thinking that he should probably water it soon or it might die. Or maybe it needs more sun. Or less sun, maybe. And he’s thinking about the mortgage and the kids education and the wife’s leg waxing and the termites in the walls and roof and the fact that Jansen in accounts is a right bastard and there’s always a problem with his paychecks but nobody elses and he had a word with the boss’ secretary but she is a right cow and then someone says something really out of line like: “Hi Bill, how’re you today?” and BAM!

Bell Tower. Rifle. SWAT team. Padded cell. Pills. (And possibly a movie deal if everything was particularily gory).

So I think almost everyone’s a little insane, unstable, call it what you will. It’s a steam vent to make sure the pressure doesn’t build up and up and go BOOM. We let the frustration out in little ways, the people with more pressure often end up more eccentric: talking to plants, farming ants, shooting small, cute, defenseless, furry creatures, practising ethnic cleansing or organising bombing runs on small European countries.

Then you get the real, genuine full leather jacket loonies (in medical terminology: loons). I feel for the poor people with multiple personality disorder. It must be like permanently living in a student commune or Youth Hostel dorm. The arguments: what do we watch on TV; what do we wear; what do we have for dinner. Phoning up the local pizza deliveries and asking if you can have a pizza divided into eight separate sections with separate ingredients. They can’t get mine right and I only have two ingredients over the entire pizza. Hell, I have only one personality and I can’t find my car keys in under 20 minutes. And these are still only the minor problems.

Apparently, many of the personalities are not aware that the others exist. Some are even a different sex. And here is where I think even a complete nutter should probably catch on. I don’t care how far around the bend, up a tree or to the left of normal you’ve gone. If you wake up and you have the wrong genitalia you should, at the very least, probably pop in to see your local GP. I imagine getting up, all bleary-eyed, half falling out of bed, wandering through to the bathroom, putting up the toilet seat, reaching down and … nothing.

I would be pretty concerned.

Especially if my wife’s name was Lorena Bobbitt, but that’s another story.


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