"Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops."*

   I’m on drugs again.

   You know what I mean…the sanity kind. Not the needle or powder kinds. In case you were wondering. Or are prone to conclusion jumping. My life hasn’t torpedoed quite that drastically (yet).

   I went cold turkey on the sanity pills for two full months before I realized that I’m just not a worthwhile human being without medication. In some ways that fact makes me feel sad and inferior. But these new Steve Austin pills make me better, stronger, faster…and maybe a little bit…what’s the word?...sane? Ouisa suggested that instead of looking at it as though I’m inherently flawed and require medication, I should think of it as if I’m really great and the meds bring that out in all its beautiful nuances. She’s really nice. She should be in PR.

   So but anyways, during the in-betweens time (between being un-medicated and then medicated again), I felt like my brain was the open, abandoned farmland for a scary carnival, replete with all the things that scare me: clowns, spiders, mirrors, axes, etc. Like my brain was the perfect setting for a horror film or Stephen King novel. I drew a picture of my brain for you:

A Rorschach image of the inside of my twisted brain.

   I can’t begin to explain how much this picture is nicer than the place inside my head,

   Am I scaring you?

   Sorry.

   And I don’t want to be weird, but I keep hearing Tom Petty’s “Free Falling” every time I turn on the radio. How is that possible? I do not exaggerate when I say that I’ve heard that song at least once a day on the radio (on different stations) since I’ve been in Omaha. It can’t be pure coincidence. But then again…if the universe is sending me a sign, it’s a bit on-the-nose, don’t you think? Okay, yeah, I get it, Universe, I’m free falling. Good grief. Try to add a little mystery to the symbolism, would you?

   So, yeah, anyhow, I’m trying to put my proverbial ducks in a row and write on the regular, but when you’re busy free falling and entertaining circus folk in your brain there isn’t a butt-load of time for that kind of shit.

   But I’m gonna shoot for a more regular schedule, now that the clowns are dead.

*Arsenic and Old Lace: Frank Capra, 1944.