flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
You know how I tend to think people are judging my groceries, like when I buy cookies and assume everyone in the store is silently mocking the fat chick with the cookies? Sometimes it’s less self-destructive and more vaguely worrying, like, for instance, perhaps, when I roll up with a basket of tinfoil and catfood at 8:30 pm on the Fourth of July. I just imagine a conversation in my head: “Why no, I don’t have a cat. Why would you think I have a cat?” “Yes indeed, I AM making a tinfoil hat to ward off the terrible skyfire!” And then, before I know it, I’ve said something to the cashier about how I really am sane and just have a cat and vegetables to cook — I mean, I have a cat, and I also have vegetables to cook. I’m not cooking the cat. I wouldn’t need the food then, would I? — and then the cashier, who didn’t care what I was buying before, DOES start to worry about my sanity, so I type in my pincode really quickly to prove that I’m competent to take care of myself.
One day I swear I’m going to scare the cashier and then blank on my pincode (as I do once every couple of years), and that’ll be the end of that. I could get my shrink dad to vouch for me, but that may not help matters as much as you’d think.
I might need a medic alert bracelet to explain that I’m only a little crazy and rarely dangerous, and just have a tendency to overthink things.