Paranoia
My in-laws are trying to have me put away. I’m not paranoid, but I hear them whispering behind my back, spreading their lies, claiming I believe in the existence of Bigfoot, Mothmen, Unmarked Helicopters and Elvis Presley. They exaggerate, mind you--I’ve never believed in the existence of Elvis Presley. This whole thing is because I’m a writer. Decades of sitting sequestered in front of a keyboard has led to atrophied social skills. During a lull in conversation at a recent family function, the awkward silence provoked me into expounding on some of the latest conspiracy theories to my brother-in-law--something about the previous president being a pawn of the American Beef Council, just as his father was a pawn of the pork producers and William Jefferson Clinton was a pawn of the poultry industry. Before I could insert my own personal disclaimer on the whole thing, my brother-in-law was looking at me the way a chicken looks at a raccoon. You know, sideways out of one big round frighte