“Don’t point your fucking finger at crazy people!”

I’ve always had an unexplainable fondness for the brainsick. The kind that you somehow relate to, but find it difficult to admit. I believe there’s a loony in all of us. To some degree — and I use the term very loosely — a sociopath.

Christ, how I miss Angelina’s grittier roles. Girl, Interrupted has always held a special place in my heart. What is there for a girl not to love? I pop in the DVD, relate to the women in true chic-flick spirit, then turn it off, look around, and thank my lucky stars for being “normal.” It’s like a drug.

Science’s habit of creating a definition for every facet of the human personality (or lack thereof) never ceases to amaze me. I like the term sociopath. I am intrigued by the fact that it was called “Moral Insanity” in the 19th century, “Psychopathic Personality” in the beginning of the 20th, finally settling on “Antisocial Personality Disorder” in today’s medical dictionaries. Pore over a list of psychiatric disorders, and you’ll discover one that befittingly describes that busy little head of yours. A few more clicks, and you’ll then discover a pill that treats it. How convenient. You see, we’re all miscreants in the Story of Life, one way or another. We are labeled “crazy” by the even “crazier.” Balderdash. Shelve those pills.

The film closed with Susanna’s revelation:

Was I ever crazy? Maybe. Or maybe life is… Crazy isn’t being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It’s you or me amplified. If you ever told a lie and enjoyed it. If you ever wished you could be a child forever. They were not perfect, but they were my friends…

I suppose I embrace it. If not for our shortcomings, what else would there be to write about? Ever? Crazy people. America’s favorite antagonist.

Lemons. What do you with your lemons? A good friend of mine was once obsessed with the Lemon quote. Those who were interested shared their own countermeasure, much to our entertainment and appreciation. Sure enough, the more clever the remedy, the harder the next individual would strive to come up with something even more grandiose or fantastical. And yes, clever is sexy. I wish I could remember them all. They were probably worth talking about, but I’m currently drawing a blank and taking any inkling I remember, making desperate attempts to force them to make sense. Never mind.

Of course, when it’s a “Shannon in Real Life” moment, I start to over analyze random things in my head. Like my own lemons, for instance.

WWSD?

Really now, what would Shannon do? Like the carping bitch that I am — or rather, that I have an inadvertent tendency to be, when I’m not asking myself WWJD or even WWTDD — I’d first interpret, then knock every cliche answer that I’ve ever heard…

“…Make lemonade.”
Sure, while you’re at it, rub my shoulders then go make me a full-course meal, woman. Weird visions of June Cleaver invade my mind’s personal space. The make-the-best-of-it-everything-will-be-okay ideal grates my nerves. So much, that I won’t even get into it.

“…Hand them back and run away.”
This faulty ideal must explain the bulk of life’s blunders. I have never met anyone who has successfully macheted through the jungle of life by diffusing responsibility elsewhere, or simply refusing to accept it. Run away. That alone should raise a red flag in any advice column.

“…Paint That Shit Gold.”
That was a hip-hop album title I ran across one day on the Internet. What the fuck are you going to do with gold lemons? Faux gold lemons, at that. It’s like sweeping dirt under the rug. Even worse, there’s no lesson or warning involved. You’re painting a problem into something useless, because it sure as hell ain’t grand decor.

“…Find someone who has vodka and throw a party.”
If I had vodka, I don’t want your stinkin’ lemons around me! The last thing you need is to get obliterated. Speaking from the Walking Contradiction, herself! Have you ever truly enjoyed a party when your life was shit? Boy, I’d hate to be the last person standing at that party the moment you break down. It sort of fits right in with…

“…Grab some salt and tequila.”
Doesn’t take into account the “Tequila Makes You Violent” theory. Emotional issues and violent tempers make horrible cocktails.

“…Make grape juice, sit back, and let everyone try and figure out how you did it.”
On the contrary, my dear Watson. You’re not that smart. Where’d you buy it? This reminds me of some self-help propaganda. Yeah, let’s take this pile of shit, create something entirely different out of it (not better, different), and amaze the masses. Who has the time or money? You know, that awkward silence? No one is wondering how you did it. They just think you are crazy. And for the record, lemonade is much better than grape juice, so save yourself the trouble.

To tell you the truth in retrospect, I’ve handled my lemons a variety of ways. None so much better than the last, but there were in fact a few things that each mad method had in common. Bitching and whining, followed by an intense period of acceptance, long and hard thought, and the will to make it right. Yes, yes, I know. Violins.

I am my own worst enemy. I’d sabotage myself long before anyone else would have the opportunity to. I’ve learned that my biggest fault was “making a mountain out of a molehill.”

So, you ask, WTFWSD?

I would juggle them. I’d throw the act into my daily matinee because, yes, life goes on. I’d deal with them until the issue loses its sting. I’d work with the sons-of-bitches until I could skillfully manage them with one hand.

I reckon I might be no better than those whom I berate. Knowing myself, I would sneak in some bravado and throw a unicycle into the mix. If there was one thing I was ever skilled at, it was making it look good.