Mental Illness

 

(My wife is a loon.)

Yesterday, I got home at 6 p.m. I looked at the Dragon Lady and shot her a big toothy grin.

I said, “Hello. Did you have a nice day?”

No response.

“Hello! Are you hard of hearing? Was your afternoon pleasant?”

Silence. All I got was a vacant stare.

So I walked to the bathroom to wash my feet and hands. Then I changed into my jammies. This is a daily ritual in my apartment. My wife is terrified of dirt and grime. Therefore, everybody is required to scrub themselves raw if they wish to enter my humble abode. Needless to say, we don’t get many visitors. In fact, it’s been years since a friend dropped by in order to shoot the breeze.

I’m not sure what type of mental illness is afflicting my wife. For instance, is she obsessive compulsive? Maybe she’s a manic depressive. Then again, it might be borderline personality disorder. But let’s not forget malignant narcissism. I simply have no clue. And why should I? I’m not a trained psychiatrist. In common vernacular, most people would simply say that the Dragon Lady is fucking nuts. Yet what’s a boy to do? It’s not like I can throw her off the roof and claim that she committed suicide. Unfortunately, there are laws against such behavior. However, I will say this. I’ve been living with this loony bat for close to 25 years, and I completely understand why religious zealots used to burn witches back in the day.

I went to my room and listened to a sermon by my favorite pastor Charles Lawson. I don’t agree with everything the man says. But I like his style a great deal. He knows how to make his weekly service quite entertaining. Even though I’m enjoying him on YouTube, I often yell hallelujah and amen with the rest of the congregation. If I lived in Tennessee, I’d certainly join his church. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t tithe. I’m too broke for that. Rather, I’d sit in the back pew and scream joyously like the rest of the yahoos. Lawson is the best preacher I’ve ever seen.

My wife knocked on my door. “It time foh dinnah, idiot.”

I joined my family at the kitchen table. That’s when she threw my green card at me. I recently changed apartments, so she had taken the card that morning to the immigration office in order to file a change of address. Because I’m married to a local, I’ve been given permanent resident status.

I gave her a smile. “Thanks for your hard work.”

“I not want you thanks. You da motha-fucka.”

I turned to Rice-Boy Larry. “I fear that your mother might be possessed by a demon.”

He shrugged. “You might be right. She’s been in a foul mood all day.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

He frowned and sighed. “I don’t know. I’m just a kid. What do you want from me?”

I patted him tenderly on the shoulder. “No matter how bad life gets, it’s always important to keep your dick up.”

Rice-Boy laughed uproariously. “I agree.”

“Good man. You’re a prince, and I mean that sincerely.”

I ate my vittles in silence. The meal consisted of beef, rice, and Chinese mushrooms. I’m not a huge fan of rice, but I kept my mouth shut. I just grinned and nodded like the village retard. I’m wonderful that way. After all, things could always be worse. At least I wasn't born in Djibouti.