I am a crazy.
Not just borderline eccentric but full on DSM-5, men in white coats, padded cell crazy.
At least I think I am.
Other people seem to think I am too.
My children and my cats think I have a flock of bats in my belfry.
Do you get flocks of bats?
What is gathering of bats called… a swarm, a cloud?
A cloud of bats in my belfry.
I sing in my car.
I dance in the kitchen.
I cry in the rain.
I laugh in the face of danger.
I can be on top of the world today and in the depths of the abyss tomorrow, but along the way I’ll experience everything in between.
I’ll take these gray storm cloud of bats in my belfry, because I know someday I’ll be dancing on with a choir of angels who will eventually throw me off my cloud due to the fact that I sing with great passion and very little tune.
Can’t say I blame them. Cricket (aged 11) has discovered how to whistle and walks around in an aimless preteen zombielike trance atonally whistling Christmas Carols in April. If I wasn’t already crazy this might drive me over the edge.
Like the man who killed his wife last week by beating her to death with a perfume bottle because the specter of Japanese knotweed in his garden took what was left of his marbles and scattered them across the cosmos.
I’m not that crazy.
I’m the one who always takes the road less travelled.
The one who can’t follow a rule without a reason.
Who isn’t round enough or square enough to fit into the hole.
I think I’m okay with that.