Does That Make Me Crazy Or, That Shit Cray…

I’m not really a huge fan of Someecards. I get it – they’re edgy and funny but after seeing them slapped up everywhere online, I’m just kind of over the whole thing.

But this one actually hit home:

I recently learned that more people than just Paps read this blog (sidebar: Ha ha! You have to love me because I’m your kid!) and these people actually voluntarily spend time with me.

Like, they talk to me and call me and hang out with me and sometimes, we engage in the joint quantum inhalation of carbs.

It’s pretty spectacular, actually.

I figured embracing the cray was the way to go here. Like, just get all up in there and cuddle with it.

If you still love me after reading this, I’m making you a mix CD. And some sort of delicious food item that isn’t a baked good.

Five Admissions Of Batshittery:

1. I hate having my in-betweens touched. That flesh in between your digits? Ugh. It disgusts me out to no end and I get irrational and panicky whenever anyone attempts it.

When Augs and I first started dating, he found out about this little quirk and thought it would be funny to squish the in-betweens on my feet.

My reaction was panic, tears and almost kicking him in the face.

Let me reiterate – I almost kicked the man I love in the face because he touched my foot.

Hooray for rationality.

(No, I have no idea why he loves me either. I make good cornbread. That could be it…?)

2. I want a fox as a pet. I read Fantastic Mr. Fox as a child one too many times and now, Adult Jaime thinks it would be peachy keen to have a wild canine as house pet.

This is a terrible idea for numerous reasons (the primary one being that it’s a feral dog) but every time I see one darting across the road, I think, “I could steal you and take you home and name you Nicholas and LOVE YOU FOREVER.”

Also, last time I saw a dead fox on the side of the road, I was inconsolable for a good ten minutes. Ten minutes is a really long time to fixate on roadkill, y’all.

In my defense, though? They’re really damn cute. See?

His. Little. Paws.

3. I don’t wash my face at the bathroom sink because I live in perpetual fear that I’ll look up and Michael Myers will be right behind me, staring at me in the mirror.

I am scared of being brutally murdered by a fictional psychopath.

4. I really, really, really love songs where the singer whispers lyrics. For example, when Brian Fallon whispers, “If you just do this for me” in Black Betty & The Moon by The Horrible Crowes – I just want to buy him things. Expensive things. Like goldtop Gibsons. And vintage cars.

If you want me to do something for you/want me to fall for you like a bag of hammers, whisper to me. It’s effective…unless I can’t hear you in which case, I’ll just yell “What?!” a lot, end up getting annoyed and shooting you the death glare all evening – “Asshole. What? You’re too good to enunciate, Mumbles?”

Oddly enough though, Wait (The Whisper Song) by the Ying Yang Twins scares the hell out of me.

5. I talk to myself constantly.

Constantly.

In the car (“Dude bro, a turn signal is a thing in this world”), grocery shopping (“Do I need garlic? I probably need garlic. Not too much, though because what am I gonna do with it once it starts sprouting? Can you use it once it’s sprouting?”), while watching TV (“Ugh! I hate you, Voodoo! You don’t call the plays! Coach calls the plays!”).

Once, I even scared a small child at the farmer’s market. I was muttering underneath my breath about raspberries versus blackberries when I catch him giving me a terrified look. I smiled at him and said, “Oh, I’m not crazy. I just talk to myself sometimes.”

Which is exactly what a crazy person would say.

So yeah — totes cray, right?

But – it’s the Good Crazy as opposed to the Boil-Your-Bunny Cray and I’m embracing it.

Y’all aren’t gonna be hanging out with me so much anymore, right?

Yeah. Just checking…

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