Taking stock

A mysterious stranger came to my house the other day, dressed in a fedora and trench coat. He claimed to work for the police, convinced me to ride with him to the county morgue, and showed me what appeared to be my own corpse while seemingly convinced it was my father.

No one told me about the pressures going into self-publishing a novel. At this point, I think it’s reasonable to assume I’ve lost my mind. I must have had a severe psychotic break with reality.

I went to the store to buy some groceries. Maybe not the most logical step when one’s doubting one’s sanity, but an insane person doesn’t need to justify himself to anybody. I needed a touch of normalcy, a few minutes in a familiar setting to process what had seemed so real to me, but what couldn’t have been. But at the store, no one noticed me. No one acknowledged by presence. I went through the checkout line, and the cashier looked right through me to the shopper following me and said, “Next.”

I was physically pushed, pushed, along by the shopping cart behind me, and no “excuse me” or “hello?” dissuaded any participants of this farce of a social interaction. I walked out with twenty dollars worth of food without paying a penny.

This does not bode well for my future mental state.