For many years I thought and believed that the schizophrenic neighbor who lives in the apartment below me was single, because I assumed no one would want to hook up with such a mentally unstable person.
She’s crazy. She’s the “I can hear the toilets flushing and it’s making too much noise” kind of crazy. The “I can hear voices through my walls” type of crazy. The “your air conditioner is too damn loud, turn it off RIGHT NAO” crazy. The “could the handyman stop making all that racket!” (on a repair job during regular business hours) crazy. The 7:30 type crazy.
Then this morning I learned from condo management that Ms. Looney Tunes have a husband.
A husband?
Yes, and management had met him in the flesh. Apparently he’s just as nutty as she is.
So he’s not a figment of Ms. Looney Tunes’ imagination. Not “Drop Dead Fred” nor “Foster’s Home” imaginary.
Well, I’ll be damned. And impressed.
People consider me to be mentally balanced by conventional standards and I can’t even land a fucking date. The secretary at management has the same problem in the romance department. She and I are quite baffling mysteries to our friends who think we should’ve been hitched long ago. We were told by various folks that we’re good people and yet Looney Tunes manages to find someone to marry. She and I will be collecting cats in our old age. I could only laugh at the cruel cosmic irony of it all. Not really. I’m laughing more at my erroneous assumptions about Looney Tunes’ marital status. Ok, maybe a bit of both.
Hello, my name is Kieran and I am FAAF. I can’t get away from it and there is nothing I can do but embrace it. Wholeheartedly.
