i'm taking crazy pills

Turbulent morning thus far. It's May and I'm wearing a turtle neck. Why is it sunny with 35MPH winds? I started my period so I'm DYING. And already this morning I've broken down crying and busted out laughing on the subway to strangers. The huge white envelope that contains my voters registration came back to me in the mail. It says something along the lines of "179 postage needed". What the feck does that mean? I weighed it at the post office on 38th. It said ONE stamp. ONE! That wasn't enough to haul it downtown? Instead, they had to carry it over or under the east river to LIC and give it back to me saying they NEED MORE MONEY?! That makes sense.

So then I started thinking, as I walked to work, enormous white envelope tucked under my arm. If stamps are 41 cents a piece, how many more do I need? It said I need $1.79. $1.79 more than the one stamp already stamped? Or a total of $1.79? I'm trying to do the math in my head while Dave Matthews is howling that "life is short". I suck at math. I am trying to divide and multiply and not get hit by a car. I'm just a block or two from the post office and I'm visualizing a quick little visit.

It involves me, busting open the door and causing a scene. The million and one people (who inevitably will be standing in line as if they have nothing better to do) will turn and look at me. They will wonder if I'm crazy, or if I'm a threat, or if they're getting to witness someone "going postal". Then I would slip a pair of reflective aviators from my enormous leather satchel and subsequently put them on my head. OHP, you thought it was going to be a weapon? REALLY? They all breathe a heaved sigh of relief. BUT THEN, with the corner of my mouth rising, revealing a singular dimple, I begin to reach BACK into my enormous leather satchel. A woman gasps and a small child begins to wail. I pull out of my purse, a bazooka. I get a crazy look in my eye (but they can't see it because of the aviators) and I look up at the ceiling and I begin to shoot holes. Huge, pot-hole sized, hole-puncher style gaps in the ceiling. I'm proving a point, and dammit, they'll listen. Sheet rock falls dramatically, spraying into my hair and billowing smoke and entering my mouth.

And then. Ever so slowly, someone, anyone who is a government employee, comes forward and relieves me of the enormous white envelope. And I say "thank you". Walk out of the door, back onto 7th avenue, and continue my walk to work.