Dissociative Identiy Disorder Creates Problems; Mooner Loses Camel Toe Dream To Mental Boarder

 

So. After performing another community service yesterday, fully disclosing to you—and fully exposing more of the inner-workings of my fevered brain—I find myself in quite the quandary. I exposed another part of my mental maladies to you only because it was what I SHOULD do. I didn’t tell you about the other man who resides inside my skull for personal enhancements, rather, I exposed that sordid part of me because I felt it was the right thing to do.

Why does life punish us for willingly doing the right thing? How come I didn’t have a life of roses and honey for at least one fucking day as a reward for good behaviors?

Why is life so very fucking mean?

Don Legacy, my personal Dissociative Identity for which I’m considered Disordered, has been but a very small part of me ever since I saved him from a terrible drugged drowning when I was a boy. I pulled him from the deepest part of our creek out of a sense of doing the right thing, and even then with some trepidations. I didn’t want to get caught and I didn’t save him for personal gains. But I knew he was more than just my “imaginary” friend. (So that everyone understands how fucked up I am, I just self-edited that last sentence to avoid the punctuation quandary I have with non-quotes placed inside quotation marks. I first typed “imaginary friend”[.]. So as to avoid doing the “[.]” dealie, my personal sign of protest to the grammar police for allowing such a confusing fucking rule, I changed it. But I feel somehow less a man for having done it. I sacrificed my integrity as an author to avoid an uncomfortable moment. Ugh.)

Even at that young age I knew Don Legacy was more than imaginary. He was tangible. But not tangible in the ways that most crazy people see their real “imaginary” friends. Wait. Maybe I should have said that crazy people’s imaginary friends are real people to them and that isn’t how I view Don Legacy. I see him as a real person only as far as some stuff goes. Like he has a brain—my brain—which is a partial brain usually and a near-complete when I allow him to use it.

How fucking confusing is this? Let me try again. My form of ADHD is the one where a person, me, has many simultaneous lines of thoughts going on at the same time. Usually not the fevered, racing thoughts of bi-polarized or schizophrenic persons, but multiple, random and mostly intelligible, and distinct thoughts each fighting for attention.

Don Legacy is one of those thought streams. He’s always there, mostly unheard except as a feint echo, and occasionally he’ll burst through and take control of the frontal lobes. He lives his own life separate from mine and until yesterday, he stayed closeted from the world until I brought him out.

Now, I fear I’ve unleashed the beast. Last night I had another of my wonderful camel toe contest dreams. Most of the usual contestants were there—Sarah Palin, Dr. Marcus and Michele Bachmann, Oprah, Queen Elizabeth, Kathy Griffin and Chelsea Handler—and each was showing spectacular camel toes. I’m always the judge in these contests. Sometimes I’m judging which is best displayed by clothing, sometimes with jewelry and bling, sometimes I judge for shape and contours.

But it is always me judging. Until last night when Don Legacy had the dream. It was so fucking weird, guys. Like an out-of-body experience.

I might be more messed up than I thought. I need to get this Jack back in his box. SAC Ellen called me from Omaha, Nebraska last night to tell me she was concerned with my latest revelation. Why is Homeland Security worried about Nebraska enough to send my sweetie there for meetings? What in hell a terrorist would want to blow up in Nebraska is a conceptual problem for me.

“We have hard intelligence that a terrorist cell of three was smuggled across the Canadian border to blow up cows. All farmers with herds of more than ten cows need to be on the lookout for suspicious persons.”

Did you know that the plural of cows is “kine”[?] I know it’s considered archaic and all of that, but I like the word kine. I also like the word vagina. I mean I like vagina and vaginas when they are attached to a woman, but I also like the actual word. And whyinthefuck is Microsoft Word giving me the squiggly red line dealie on the word vaginas? What the hell would you call two or more vagina(s)? Vagini? Nope. How about vaginos? Uh-unh.

I like the word vagina. It’s one of those words that fits what it is. Like stop! And fuck and ostrich. And kine.

Holy-fucking ugh! I am a seriously fucked-up vagina-loving crazy man. I need some extra psycho therapy sessions. And I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “Dissociative Identiy Disorder Creates Problems; Mooner Loses Camel Toe Dream To Mental Boarder”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, this Legacy guy sounds like a real stick in the mud. I mean, you ought to be able to have your own damn cameltoe dreams without having to share them with some figment of your (very) fertile imagination, right? You shoulda left that guy in your Gram’s tow sack in the creek. Cameltoe dreams are your personal property, and any court of law in the country would agree.

    Found a video you need to see. Scoot on over to my place at watch Dunlap and Jackie review the teabagger GOP debate, complete with anal suppositories administered by the church songleader, and the bedpan changing organist.

    And Rick Perry says in Texas they protect life… Hey, just passing along what they said!

  2. Squat. Isn’t it incredible how bad uncovered shit stinks? I find it truer every day that no good deed goes unpunished. If that little fucker doesn’t watch himself, I’m bringing him into my frontal lobe and then getting a partial lobotomy.

    That will teach him. I’m headed to your place.

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