On Crazy, or, The Victor Belongs to the Spoils.

"Don't do it! I know what you're doing! Stop!"

"I am peeing!"

"You're bent over the toilet!"

"Hey! I want to pee! Privacy would be nice!"

"You are not peeing! I know exactly what you're doing and you need to stop!"

"What am I doing? How do you know?!"

"Really, GG! Who goes to the toilet with a fork?! Now get out of there!"

That is my trainer talking me down from a ledge that exists on the edge of a commode. It's not chronic, no, it's something I indulge in once in a while. And it's exhausting. And messy. It's a good fit, frankly, with the anxiety, the insecurity, the affectations, the acrid regrets...On my nights on the town, I feel like Zelda Sayre, "dreaming how much better I would be than I am if I were somebody else, or even myself, and feeling that my estate has been unexploited to the fullest!" See, a handy quote! This is a very well put-together production of Crazy. That word is so gauche, really! It conjures up images of wildness and immaturity. This Crazy (distinguished by its Capital 'C') is Compelling, Complex stuff. 

I am not Crazy because it's fashionable. I am fashionable because I can, with skinny ties and suspenders, also do Crazy. It's wonderful, really, to have an outward locus upon which to place my neuroses for a while. I cannot internalise them anymore. Gosh, I was so repressed when I was fourteen! I remember, Mother, Father, friends of the family and I, we took The Grand Tour when I was that age. It was in Paris that I, a Xanax sous'd carcass of a 1950's housewife, stuffed inside the awkward body of a fourteen-year-old boy, actively fought desire, fought back a sexual awakening. It was all too sordid, messy...and I had invested in a new wardrobe. Besides, it was Paris! I wanted languidness, elegance and grace that I was hard-pressed to find in that swathing body that I inhabited. I took to the Sex Shoppes one evening with my partner-in-crime and dear friend (who did not hold back, as far as his sexual awakening was concerned) by my side. I remember a lot of red. I remember pretending not to understand the French on the signs of certain, fairly intuitive devices. I remember going to these establishments just to stick my nose up to them. Mentally condemn those who came by to buy porn, cat o'nine tails...It was very satisfying, and I returned to the hotel bearing two seemingly innocent (yet enigmatically apropos) post-cards depicting The Mona Lisa. I think I knew that those patrons were freer than I ever would be. They didn't have to prove a thing to anyone, and neither did they have to derive sustenance by feeding upon someone else's alleged depravity.

Now. Now, I find myself walking the streets of my Spitsbergen: over the top and under the table; bitchy and sparkling; contentedly sad; inveterately single, measuring in shot glasses how much the heart can hold! A young thing with sad eyes...oh Crazy, Crazy! So Crazy! But not free. Never free. Always envying those who don't care, and never have. Always playing at Keeping Up Appearances. So interesting! But so fucking Crazy! But, just Crazy enough to be interesting! 

What is this blog post about? I had initially decided that I would delineate Crazy, but I really have entirely too much to say about it and most of it is in stream-of-consciousness which, those of us in the know know, is so three seasons ago! I'd talk about my relationship with food and how it is as dysfunctional as my relationship with certain exes and members of my extended family. Lots of hoarding and trippy guilt-trips...but even my sort-of eating disorder is so...disorderly given the lack of commitment. 

As I sit before Dick Diver V (yes, there have been five therapists! I feel like a slut of/in/under/atop analysis) and obsess about perfunctory comments that I have overanalysed to the point of implosion, forgotten pipettes,   the immunology of my non-existent "sex" life, my inadequacies, my Crack-Ups, the weird mix of repulsion and concupiscence I felt when a stranger groped me outside a bar...I feel like Zelda Sayre-Fitzgerald. I feel like I am not really Crazy, but very, very spoilt! All of these symptoms that I have mentioned seem to cohere together into a recherché tableau that is, at its very core, a misprized tantrum. A tantrum that I have been throwing for the longest time that it has become a gradual performance; a tantrum that I have thrown about something that I no longer remember or even care about. It's just...fun to live in a world defined by camp, tears, metaphor...like Richard II, like Hamlet. But, no, those aren't fair comparisons. They were committed! They put their deaths where there mouths were! 

Have I been so vile for nothing? I am not fishing for compliments, I am not looking for someone to hold my hand...I just want you to know that I know. It is hard to live with Knowing. It's hard to keep asking oneself: have I been so vile, so Crazy for nothing?

Indeed, it is with the loose ends that men hang themselves.

Excuse me, I am going to sedate myself now.

Until the next time,

GossipGuy.