Packing for Boston with Schizoaffective Disorder
Me: Hey, you’ve been quiet lately. And that’s been awesome, because I’ve had a lot to do. Thank you.
My crazy (MC): You miss me? Is that what I’m hearing?
Me: No. No, no, no, no. Communications breakdown.
MC: Hey, did I hear you say you’re driving to Boston next week for work?
Me: . . . No. Well yes. Yes, I am. But you don’t need to come. You’d be so bored. I think the hotel has a ‘no crazy’ policy anyway, so — What the hell is that?
MC: I packed a bag for you.
Me: A bag of what?
MC: Let’s see . . . some of the usj. A little paranoia. Oh, and good luck driving over that bridge in Delaware. Its pillars. Are made. Of spaghetti.
Me: You know, it’s because of you that I’m not just flying there. I do not appreciate this.
MC: Also a delusion or three. But don’t worry — they’re mild ones, and I’ve carefully packed them in anxiety. Same goes for everything. Basically, if I saw blank space, I crammed in anxiety like it’s tissue paper. So nothing breaks. You’re welcome.
Me: You know what I’m taking to Boston with me? A good book, a jacket, and a corkscrew. You are terrible at packing luggage.
MC: And last but not least, a brand new shiny . . . obsession! I know how you like those. Plus, this one will keep you out of trouble. I mean god knows what’s going to happen if you go gallivanting around effing Boston at night — with a corkscrew. Now, you can just stay in your hotel room, undrunk and unmurdered, and write obsessively about . . . drum roll please . . .
Me: I am not taking that stupid bag. I don’t care how . . .
MC: (opens bag)
Me: . . . shiiiiny . . .
MC: Right?! By the way, doesn’t the shadow over there remind you of, like, a gazillion dancing spiders?
Me: I think my work here is done. Have fun in Boston!
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