Last month I got my cousin Brody “Chody” (He’s only 5 foot ten and he’s a dick) to help me move a new couch to my apartment. The skinny redheaded bastard didn’t want to at first, but I called his mother, Auntie Gretchen and got her to threaten him to take him out of her will and so he did it. Once he’d gotten it up the stairs he proceeded to put it down in the living room. On. The. Wrong. Side. Of. The. Room.

Naturally I got like super-mad and he must’ve noticed my frown cuz he whined:

“God, what is it now Anne!?”

I didn’t want to tell him what the problem was, because, like he’s my cousin after all so he should know intuitively. I crossed my arms and scowled at him.

“Just tell me what the fucking problem is and I’ll fix it already!” He shouted, getting mad for no reason.

This made me even madder, I mean he would know that the couch was in the wrong place if he cared about me. When I didn’t answer he got all red faced and yelled:

“I’ve had it with you Anne, you fucking CRAZY BITCH!”

and stormed out of the apartment. Ouch. OMG. Like calm down. Go eat some Leper-Corn you Hobbit. You’re gonna get yourself heart attack before your 15th birthday.

Anyway so this whole episode got me thinking about craziness and madness and all that stuff, and I was curious so I went on Wikipedia to educate myself. #geekgirl

It seems that, like in the 1900’s, before iPhones and iPods even existed, the was this huge stigma, crazy-shaming, against people with mental illnesses.

In the Patriarchal past of the Midland Ages, it was believed that PMS was actually a mental illness called hysteria. Women were locked up, burned by the steak or even suffered death by murder at the first sign of menstruation, because everyone thought that the blood and the behavior was evidence of a bleeding brain — something that made you a witch. This is why there’s so many more men than women in the world today.

Anyway, things have changed, and I believe that one particular website is the most important reason for this. I am talking of course, about Tumblr. As you know Tumblr is a vibrant place for social justice advocates like myself. It’s a place where like minded, good thinkers with the right opinions can gather round, let off a little steam and vent the discrimination they face to the world. This ecosystem makes the perfect safe space for people with mental illnesses to come together, something they have taken advantage of. Suddenly, those living with mental illnesses are not alone anymore.

I just totally knew I had at least one mental illness, I am waaaay too special and mysterious not to have one. So I went on all these blogs on a fierce adventure to find out more about all of this, and eventually diagnose myself. It was exhausting and it felt like a job, I mean I have never had one, but it felt like what I think a job feels like. Totally Exhauuusting!

But I learned a lot. A lot. I learned that having a mental illness can make you seem like so deep and cultured. Like a troubled intellectual with a dark side. I knew the boys were gonna think I was so sexy as a crazy person. This was so valuable to me. I mean it.

I couldn’t wait to find out what mental illnesses I had so I started looking into myself and my own behavior in order to diagnose what was special about me. At first it seemed hopeless, like, I didn’t see voices and hear colors so I definitely wasn’t schizophrenic, and I was pretty happy, especially on Xanax, so I sure as hell wasn’t depressed. I just needed to find the right illness for me, but It seemed really hard, it was a struggle that I equate to other Civil Rights Struggles. Then, one early morning came my Shaniqua moment.

Last week when I walked out of the shower at Tyrone’s crib, dried my hair and looked at the floor, I realized that one tile was a different colour than the rest. This made me like, totally cringe at first, but then after having gone through my mental files of symptoms, I became like super overjoyed. I had finally found my first illness, OCD, and I felt so special because of it! Another thing to brag about, I thought before I went and told Tyrone I wasn’t pregnant. (He requires me to take a test every morning, just in case).

I came out to my friends and family about my illness the same day on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, and got tons of support through likes and retweets. Naughty boys were like making sexy jokes about me being crazy in bed and stuff and Fedora chumps were all like, we’re here for you Anne (Ewwwww). All the girls said I was perfect the way I am with like tons of hearts and kissing emoticons, like even old people I know took the time and learned how to use emoticons and what they mean, which meant a lot to me. Thanks everyone!

A week later, my sane life seems so far away. I look at pictures of myself from like last months, and I don’t even recognise myself anymore. I am like a different person now, a deeper more interesting person. I am like cool now, I am somebody, I mean I’ve always been cool, but now I have an extra edge on all the bitches my age, an extra edge on all the bitches my age. Sorry, I had to write that twice cuz of my OCD, so stop shaming me, I shouldn’t have to apologize to you. Fucking conformist.

I can’t believe, that a little more than a week ago, I was still stuck in the quagmire of mental degeneration that is sanity. I once was involved with you sane peasants, I plowed their fields and ate their sourdough, but now I’m a queen, and I am worthy of a crazy cake or two.

That’s why, If you’re a sany, you’re just not cool. You’re just one of billions of sheep just grazing about on a field of mediocrity, waiting until republican Farmer Chris Cissty, shears you to shreds. Nothing makes you special. Nothing. You will never know the higher existence that living with a mental illness bequeaths upon an individual. You’re boring, you’re not interesting. You are just not cool.