There are times that I wish I could be addicted to something. While hanging out with the local chumps I hear the war stories of people that were an addict. There is nothing better than listening to someone recount an experience that led them through the streets of Philadelphia on a path of destruction to find that last little shit who wants to sell him some crack.
Some of the world’s fucked-up people are the people that interest me. If you are crazy and hear voices in your head I want to know who they are. Do they sound like Burt Reynolds or Sean Connery? I think it would absolutely amazing to have the ominous voice of Charlie Manson speaking to me at totally irrelevant times. How many people can say that a serial killer talks to them while they are commuting to work?
I don’t care who you are. You cannot tell me that you have not at least once thought about what it would be to labeled clinically insane. I’m not talking about slit-my-wrists-emo insane; I mean the people that walk through the halls of Ancora eating crayons and smearing Elmer’s glue on their tongue. These are the type of people that decide to mold their feces in the shape of the Pope, or weave a blanket out of the hair that they had shed.
I am a firm believer that half of these people lie about these craziness. It would be nice to be delusional and hear the voice of a raving madman for a couple of minutes. Unfortunately I am not the type of person to go through a drug induced stupor in order to hear a second or third voice in my head whisper sweet-nothings into my consciousness.
Obviously a vast majority of these people are crazy. But what about the people that aren’t? Maybe Elvis is really speaking to that a random lunatic and all he wants is another peanut-butter and fried banana sandwich. Who knows?
Oh what I would give to be crazy for a couple of hours. It might answer so many questions in my life.