Crazy as the Day is Long 1.0

The funny thing about being crazy is that it makes you interesting. There is harmless crazy and harmful crazy and I love me some harmless crazy. Though the “less” part may be debatable, I love Nancy Grace because she is what I believe to be, a harmless crazy.

Soothe me with your lovely voice, Nancy. Soothe me.

(If you kill yourself based upon a 15 second interview with Nancy Grace…then I have to believe something else in your life has gone horribly wrong.)

I’m crazy. I’m okay with it. I think everybody sort of is. Or, at least, everybody I would ever want to spend any amount of time with. The crazy is what keeps things interesting, and funny, and by golly, keeps me on the edge of my seat.

This is a poster I have above my bed. No. It isn't. I'm not a fucking loser. Who made this and why do they hate life so much, that they would subject their fellow humans to a fucking panda kicking us in the face with this horrible message?!? This is only appropriate to be sold in gift shops at insane asylums. Seriously. For real.

The older I get, the more types of crazy I see.

Personally, I don’t do “anger-crazy.”  I don’t yell. I don’t slam doors. I have never raised my voice to any boyfriend I have ever had. (And if any of them stumble across this, they will verify that….or else). I just don’t get crazy-angry. I don’t see a point in yelling, and on a purely psychological and physical level, I don’t get angry like that. (except at kittens. watch yourselves…baby cats.) (just kidding, guys.)

While I wrote this post, I ate two orders of this. Crazy bread is my muse. Along with cheesecake, guacamole, and Alf.

But I’m food-crazy. Oh, how I’m food-crazy. Aside from my very obvious unhealthy relationship with food, that alternates between rapist-victim, to mother-child, to ex-boyfriend-with-a-new-hot-fiance-and-old-girlfriend-who-has-a-major-breakout-happening-at-this-mutual-friend’s-holiday-party.

I figured since nobody ever reads this blog..."fuck it" I'm just gonna post a pic of my tummy. Took 8 hours and 300.00 bucks to do that, guys. Worth. Every. Penny. They don't call me "Chicken & Biscuits" for nothin'

It is a complicated and disgusting relationship that all too often involves 6 trips to the grocery store a week, binge eating blue corn chips dipped in pesto, and then crying in the shower afterwards. Jealous? Yeah you are. Turned on? You’re fucking gross. Get out of here.

Why is Little Ceasars trying to make mental illness fun again? Let it go, Ceasar Pequeno. Let it go. But keep the dipping sauces.

So speaking of grocery stores-here we go. The crazy.

I lived in a dorm freshman year at Arizona. I had no cell phone, as I have previously mentioned, and so we had a nice land line phone with a great answering machine. Jealous? Yeah you are.

The dorm assigned us a phone number. For Christmas, freshman year, I received a cell phone from my dad. Hooray! No more land line.

But I had started over in Arizona, and as my only phone number, I had given the land line number out to a million places.

Like Safeway. To hook up my Safeway club card.

I have little to add to this gem. But...offer accepted.

Everybody knows Safeway club cards are altruistic measures taken by grocery stores to ensure their very loved customers are getting the absolute best discounts available and not over-paying for groceries.

Just kidding. Its a way to ensnare, track, and hunt you until you are so exhausted from playing their  “this is 9 cents less with a plastic card” game that you curl into a ball below a palm tree and pray for a swift death. Death comes, and you are mummified in long receipts and your body turns into garlic salt. This is all true. I saw it once.

Fuck. I'm hungry.

So when I moved, I still had the one number connected to my Safeway club card. I never carried the actual card around…I’m not a plebian, for Christs sakes.

But I always used that number. Safeway cashiers would always say, at the end of our interaction “Thank you Ms. _______, have a lovely day”

But whomever had gotten that number after me had switched over her name.

Her name was Amy Bernal. To be precise.

So for years, they’d say “Thank you, Ms. Bernal, have a lovely day.”

Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nall. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nail. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nawl.

One day. A full four years after I got a new number and never changed over my Safeway card, I was checking out of Safeway, and the cashier said “Thank you, Ms. Burr…nail?” and before I even realized it, I said in a authoritative voice “Its Burr-nawl” and corrected her pronunciation of a last name I don’t even have.

I caught myself and stopped breathing. Realizing just how deep I had gone down a crazy hole.

I had assumed somebody’s Safeway identity and had the audacity to correct a cashier on my fake name.

I lived in Arizona for 5 years after I got rid of that original phone number. I never did get a new Safeway card. I lived as Amy Bernal, buying oatmeal and produce under an assumed identity for years before I left. So, wherever you are, Ms. Bernal, however you say your name…I apologize for being absolutely insane and boosting your coupon output, but probably lucky for you—I’m a harmless crazy.

😉

Marry me. I thank God you exist, good sir.

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