questioning the crazies

Am I really crazy? I cannot begin to count the number of times in the last few months that I've been called crazy. Not in that friendly laughing, "girl, you're crazy" tone, rather the condecending, disbelieving, mouth agape look that one give's in rare times of really seeing another's soul & deep inner workings.

Yeah. SO?

Fucking ppl drive me insane. Calling me all the time. Wanting irrational things from me.

Stupid ass questions. What are you doing? Can you take me to do laundry? Can you come pick me up (At 3am) so we can sleep in a tent (in 40 degree weather) even though you have to be awake at 6am? Can you take me to the court house? Can you help me see my children? If your going to buy a different car, can I have yours? Can you give me a ride? What was this morning about? Why are you being so nice to me? Do you want this saddle to hang on your wall? What do you think I should do about Mike? Why do you put up with him? How many times a day do women like to have sex? Why don't you come work for me on the Wave Source Chair venture? Why do you work in a bar when you're so much smarter, you have so much potential?

Maybe because I fucking want to. Maybe because in this unforgiving world that forsaken venue full of assholes makes me feel sane. Because I want to. And I will never be able to explain that to you.

I'm so tired of questions. Always wanting answers that I don't have. Ridiculing the answers I do have.

Fuck you.

You know who you are.