Honestly

...otherwise, I am sane enough to function in the world, which is what I told the first guy, or town, rather, that I asked for money way back a week ago.  Actually, what I told him, them, it, the town, was that I was not, in fact, crazy.  Just because I want to dress up like a big chicken and roller skate around the country does not mean that I am crazy (chicken skating is not a crime).

The things I think, the words I write, and the actions I take are really what prove otherwise.  The proof is in the pudding, after all or, in this case, the omelette (could someone spell omelette for me here?  Thanks.)  Getting back to the letter I sent to the town to ask them for money, the one in which I assured that nice fella, without even a twinge of guilt (because I'm a sociopath), that I am, indeed, quite sane, a fact that, if you have read any of the rest of my very wholesome and fortified blog, fluffy reader, will make you laugh so hard that you may snort...stuff...like, oatmeal, say...out of your nose.  (This is a reminder - Again, and I realize that I have never told you this before, but, again, please do not eat or drink when you read my Highly Acclaimed [highly acclaimed by me] blog.  It just simply is not safe.  Furthermore, it is dangerous.  Listen to your mother.  That's right, she's the one who told me to say that, so don't look at me.  Really, though, I tell you this because, ultimately, I think she probably does have your best interest at heart.  Even though her actions sometimes, usually, well have always, really, proved otherwise.  You should listen to her because she loves you.  Even though her council may at times be like, you know, lunacy.)

Which brings me back to telling the guy (town) I was sane so I could ask them for money when it's pretty obvious when you've seen me (person dressed up like a big chicken {or will be once I get the suit} roller skating across this Our Great Land), or read even a few sentences of anything I've written, that there is, after all, a whole lot of crazy splashing around all over the place which is what happens when you're (and when I say "you," I mean "I" here, so don't take it personally), so when you're crazy, it's probably because you haven't been to therapy for a while.

Really, though, that's the thing about lying.  Once you've done it (and when I say "you've," I mean "you" here), once you've said it, well you just gotta hang in there and make up a whole bunch more stuff and then it snowballs and you've (note: you've) got to shovel that s%#! (mixing analogies here, bear with me) at which point it turns into work, and that's really the last thing any of us ever wanted.

So, the moral of the story?  Don't lie.  Because lying ultimately leads to more work.