I've been talking to myself alot, lately.
Strangely, that doesn't bother me as much as I think it should. I mean, I know that I'm at least slightly deranged and that of my many psychological disorders and miscellaneous neuroses, paranoia and lack of true mental backbone reign supreme, but I'd never actually thought of myself of being someone with the right background to warrant schizophrenia. Sure, I had more imaginary friends than real ones for twelve years of my life, and sure they never actually packed up and went off to wherever it is that imaginary friends vanish to when you don't need them anymore, and sure, my ideas and stories sometimes physically manifest themselves in my brain with an urgent need for dialogue, but that doesn't mean I'm schizophrenic, right? No, I'm pretty sure that it just means that I'm one of those run of the mill, court-issued psychos with a lower medication rate than most. If it weren't for all the medication they make you take, I'd love to live in a mental institution. I would rule the entire place. But I hear that nuthouses take away pens and paper, so as long as I walk this lovely little blue-green ball, I'm going to try to stay out of the crazy bin. Shove pills down my throat, I don't care. Make me live with people that make my mother look normal, go for it. But take away all things used for writing?
Oh, fuck you.
Seriously, I need to reign in my little voices and start concentrating more on school. I really need to write my evolution versus creationism thesis paper for english, or I will fail.
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