Look at this ridiculous stock photo. The photographer never thought “This will be the photo that makes National Geographic!” No, he thought, “This new iPhone is amazing! I can zoom so far I see my career!” I like it though, because somewhere far below the range of the shot there is a hidden culture of creatures, diverse and distinct, devouring each other, fighting for space, food and survival. Our world is just like this. We wear pants and keep our elbows below the table but behind all of the pretense, we are no different. If you have ever spent time in a Walmart parking lot, you’ve witnessed this reality.
I used to believe that some people had it all figured out. They wore watches with fancy little numbers and dials, changed their oil on the recommended date, avoided nitrates and instilled a love for the classic writers in the hearts of orphans. Only someone on dope could believe such nonsense. All it took was a few weeks of sobriety for me to realize that everyone is fucked up in their own unique way. Some people smell bad and that way is never going to land on my list of acceptable oddities. Others hide their issues behind iron gates and decorative corbels —equally offensive. Some of us play our sickness out in a parking lot or jail cell. Pick your poison, you’re spilled milk like the rest of us and I love you for it.
I’ve always preferred those who offer up their demons like business cards. If you play the air drums professionally, talk to office equipment or ask for hot dog money from the mayor, we’ve already begun a friendship. If you say you’ve just been released from the mental institution and you are selling hand-carved soap to support your dope habit, I’ll happily give your eulogy. Most people in society look down on these folks, but they are far more respectable than your garden variety politician or housewife. You don’t have to worry whether they will betray you. Of course they will! And doesn’t it feel good to know where you stand?
Three of the best weeks of my life were spent in a psychiatric facility. During that time, I met a respectable housewife who suddenly believed she was talking to God. I also met a respectable furniture craftsman who thought he WAS God. They had been placed in the ER together, divided only by a curtain and their families were lucky enough to hear them talk to one another, God and his child. Both had experienced some sort of mental breakdown which resulted in unmatched comedy. After they both exited their delirium, we found out they worked across the street from each other but had never met! I felt like the luckiest witness on the planet. What kind of good dope junkie must I have been to have stepped into this mess? I will never forget them and the hope they gave me. Anyone can be bat-shit crazy—-anyone. There was hope for me yet.
I feel sure that both of them went back to their suburban lives without testimony to others. They returned to their dinner parties, business meetings, manicured lawns and never spoke a word of it, not even to their most liberal friends. Maybe they saw someone slipping, maybe they saw an acquaintance with that look, the look that begs for help but holds the mouth hostage, but the impulse for honesty was buried deep. They are you and I and everyone in-between. But I know, and now you do too.
None of us are exempt. I’m a mother of two with a felony drug conviction and a vault of stories that would make most men cringe. I’m not dumb, I’m human, we all are, and for that I am forever thankful. Without mistakes, this life would be bland, boring and utterly devoid of killer stock photos.
The Reprobate's Guide to Pancakes 
*claps*
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