The Girl

The Girl

I am surrounded by crazy people, I said to myself one day as I stared at the white wall in front of me. I am sure that I am not crazy. “Do the little people in severe white lab coats think I’m bizarre?” I wondered as I walked past the girl, consumed with her own neurosis, to my own private cell.

The girl, consumed by her own neurosis, has made the definitive decision to project her infinite psychosomatic quandaries on to me. I want to say nasty things to this eccentric girl because I can be mean. Why shouldn’t I? After all, she was callous to me, first!

I would like to say the sort of things that you say just to hurt people’s feelings and make them cry because of something they initially did or said to you. The kind of things you spew out not necessarily, because they are true or because they reflect how you feel but because saying them, would pluck a nerve within them and force them to think twice before they crossed you again.

I loathe the girl who aspires to be a writer. When I am happy, she comes around and pisses me off. When I am carefree, she weighs me down. This girl is a mental liability and an irrational taxation in a world that breeds psychological debts by the minute. She is angry, always. Content, never. Realize that it is the most mentally ill amongst us that do not acknowledge they have problems. I’ll remember to tell my therapist that one.

The phony writer girl with an extensive list of mental issues wants to be a swimsuit model on the cover of Maxim magazine. Don’t you know writer girl they do not hold auditions in here for girls in strait jackets? Their own photographer in the cell across the hall even told her, “We can’t get a good look at your body”

I am so confused. I pride myself on being chic and trendy. How did “the girl” figure out my secret shopping spot? How did we both end up with the most craved jacket of the season? The off-white one with the brown thick buckles and no sleeves. How dare she try to emulate me? This crazy girl consumed by her own neurosis.