Who Judges the Crazy Ones?

Do you ever wonder if you're just plain crazy? Like loony-bin-strapped-to-the-bed-and-fed-soup-through-a-straw crazy? Like I wonder how Esther in The Bell Jar went crazy. She seemed so normal at first. She was just hangin' out one summer in piss-hot New York. She should've been ecstatic 'cause she was working that summer at the hottest magazine around. Then a few chapters later, she swallows some pills and buries herself in the wall of her cellar. By the end of the book, she's in the loony bin and can't fathom how she got there.

How does someone do that to themselves? How does someone go off the deep end like that? I'm currently reading a memoir about a guy who, at 13, was forced to live with his mom's nutty shrink. This guy spent his teen years living in some squalor with a woman who ate dog food and a man who was convinced that God was speaking to him through his poop. And he didn't go crazy. Interesting.


On a cheerier note, I walked into my favorite coffee shop yesterday, and what did I stumble upon? Why, about five rock stars, of course! Just sittin' around next to their acoustic guitars. I thought I'd walked into heaven. Turns out it's open mic night—every Tuesday! Eye candy, oh boy! But let me tell you, this girl took the "stage," and she was AWESOME. She wrote her own stuff; it was fantastic. I can't wait until I can play. I only know four chords and a finger exercise on my baby. But I glued some nice rhinestones on her, so at least she's stylish.