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Sometimes, out of nowhere, I’ll start singing to Steve, “You may be right. I may be crazy. But it just might be a lunatic you’re looking for…” Billy Joel might have written it, but my Mariah like voice perfects it. ahhhOOahhEEEEEAhhhhh That’s me riffing and hitting some serious high notes thank you very much. I see a Grammy in my future. Of course, when I sing this song, I’m kidding. For one, Steve is very rarely “right” and two, I’m not a lunatic. Or so I thought…

This morning during two very separate conversations, at different times, two people suggested that I seek professional mental help. This got me to thinking, should I be medicated? I’m not talking about downing a bottle of wine (it’s only four small glasses mother) or reviving my college Vodka & Vicodin days, although I’m not totally against those ideas. I’m talking about seeking the counsel of a full fledged professional psychiatrist who has the ability to write a prescription.

I’m not sure how a doctor would diagnose me. I’m certainly not depressed. Crazy people are very rarely depressed seeing as we live in our own little crazy heads which are far more interesting than the minds of all the logical, normal people reading this. Having a crazy brain is super fun. Twice I’ve screamed, “FIRE” at a Taco Bell so that people would scatter and I could get to the front of the line. Crazy yes, but certainly not depressed as I was very happy to have a burrito in my hand so quickly.

Maybe I should check myself into a mental hospital like the movie, Its Kind of a Funny Story. I could see myself being BFF’s with the characters in the film. At the very least I would definitely make out with Zach Galifianakis.

They may be right. I may be crazy.