I have not been blogging much lately because I have gone insane. I lost it (the ‘it’ people refer to as a necessity to function in society) last week when my paranoid delusions culminated in a severe breakdown – an unhinged instability churning like tornadic razors, gnawing at my sanity. It all started with a nervous energy, a twitching vibration of seething diffidence slithering betwixt my epidermis and subcutaneous fat.

A few weeks ago, I thought I heard my neighbors playing music really loud. I listened for hours and realized it was live music – jazz, thrash metal, polka and Hungarian dances all rolled into one; sometimes going into long Baroque flute and neo-classical speed metal guitar solos. What an incredible group of musicians!

I was confused because they never stopped playing. I walked outside. To my surprise, the music stopped. Later on, the music started again while in the shower. I turned the water off, but left a slight drip going. Every time a new water droplet hit the floor, the music changed styles. It was like the soundtrack to my own life-movie; incontrovertible attestation that someone was controlling my mind from another dimension.

I realized there was no band – my mind was playing the music. Now, even more symptoms have emerged. While driving, I hear voices whispering in my ears, tickling my inner ear tissues with moistened, heated breath; just parts of sentences in different voices. I heard a womans voice say, “That’s all Emma said momma, and then she ate our cantaloupes.”

A man’s voice streamed by and mumbled, “So I decided not to burn the children, I ate their maggots.”

Children’s voices screamed, “Smelling my breath in summer.”

I could barely drive as the windshield seemed to bend the light rays, twisting my field of vision into a distorted matrix of contorted highway. All the while, voices kept groaning the phrase, “Bloodmaggots, bloodmaggots, malt blistered pork sacs,” over and over and over. I was confounded when I realized I had never actually left my shower. I had been asleep on the floor, fully clothed, sweat sodden and crying like a newborn infant.

I was overcome by a maddening compulsion to touch things a certain way. If I opened the refrigerator with three fingers on the handle, they had to seat dead center. If I failed to open it with the correct geometrical angles, I had to reopen it three times with my left hand and nine times with my right because odd numbers are a necessity in my mental wellbeing. Each successive opening had to be perfect or insane nervousness would cause me to snap.

If I notice something, it becomes an uncontrollable obsession. Two nights ago, I noticed the sensation of my toes touching one another. Never in my life has something like that driven me to the point of absolute psychoses. My disdain was unbearably intense – like having insects crawl all over my body while arms were paralyzed, unable to pluck their juicy bodies from my flesh – like an orchestra of vibrating fingernails grinding down the face of a chalkboard – old ladies cringing from the cacophony of sickness.

My neck muscles cramped, causing my head to tilt at a steep angle. Using a complex system of strings and lasers, I was able to determine the exact angle of my crooked neck: 47 degrees. Thank God it wasn’t 46 as I might have shot myself in the head. The only reason I didn’t is because it’s impossible to shoot yourself in the cranium three times. Combined with the frustration of my toes, this only compounded the ferociousness of my neuroses (a word that isn’t even used anymore – that in itself is driving me insane).

I stuffed clumps of paper towels between my toes to separate them, but it didn’t satisfy my mania. I hopped around the block on my heels to shake the weirdness from the tumid rag of my soul, but the problems only became worse. Every time I hopped around the circular road, I had to hop backwards to alleviate the surmounting tension of psychotic reversals. A wisp of cool air blew into my left ear and left an unquenchable desire to do the same in my right. For a balanced completion, I had to have the same cool wisp blow into my left once more to achieve an odd number – it took 17.33 hours.

To make things even more perplexing, I had to bite down on a chunk of polypropylene to keep my jaw closed. It’s the least flavorful of the thermoplastic resins I had on hand. I could no longer bear the stress of my toes touching. With a pair of heavy gage wire cutters, I cut the index toe from my left foot and cauterized the wound with a Bic lighter. It’s the one next to the big toe and the main source of anxiety. I am not kidding – it had to come off. I fed it to an armadillo, which carries polio and other infectious diseases by the way. Read my sickening horror story Killing Old Hag for more on toe amputation.

I have no idea what is wrong with me, and self-diagnosis doesn’t seem to be helping. I’ve come to the conclusion that wikipedia is not the compendium of knowledge it claims to be. I want to see a real doctor one day (when Obama gives me free health care and saves the world), but am afraid they will surgically alter my brain somehow. I drank five liters of orange soda because the artificial orange food coloring seems to sooth my spasmodic nerves. I hope haven’t murdered anyone with my razor of death while in a manic stupor. If I did, I wouldn’t know about it. Someone please help me…I beg you.

The painting is “Allegory of the Triumph of Venus” by Angelo Bronzino in 1545.

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