Alright, my last one-shot that revolved around insanity seemed to do fairly well, so I guess I’ll do another just for the hell of it. Review, please, and check out some of my other stuff, too. : ) If you like something and don’t review, how can I know you like it?

“Crazy? I was crazy once. They put me in a room with marshmallow walls… Only they didn’t taste like marshmallows; they tasted like 50/50 polyester-cotton. I never left that room; I died in that room. They buried me six feet under with the rats. I hate rats. Rats drive me crazy.” A pause; a thoughtful look. “Crazy? I was crazy once…”

I hate that. That stupid little saying; it makes everyone like me seem completely out of their mind, but I’m not out of mine. On the contrary, in fact; I’m utterly in tune with my mind. I like it in here; it’s not boring, like the outside world. But who am I to say something like that? Not like there’s anyone to say it to.

No one understands. No one understands the way the mind works, but I do. I know what it’s like to think and know where the thought is formed, where it’ll go. I know what it’s like to see the inner workings of every decision, every conscious movement or actions. It’s fun.

Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m insane. I know very well that I’m insane, and guess what? I don’t care. Insanity is good. In fact, I think that everyone who isn’t insane should be; it makes the world a better place. Not that stupid world where everyone is stifling themselves and others, changing themselves to be ‘better’ for the world. Image. It’s all for the image, for the ego. It’s disgusting.

I said stop looking at me like that. You’re not in the same situation, so stop acting like you think I’m crazy. There’s a difference between insanity and being crazy. If you’re insane, you still think somewhat rationally; you love; you laugh; you live. If you’re crazy, you don’t know who you are. You deserve to be put in that stupid marshmallow-polyester-cotton-walled room.

No. I’m not like that. I’m perfectly insane, but I’m not crazy.

It’s strange to think that no one is even going to read this right now, that I’m writing to absolutely no one. Well, I must be writing to someone if it’s in a book. If something is down on paper, how can it not be to someone in particular? After all, when something’s written down, that’s that; it’s there; it can’t be erased. Well, it can, technically, but that’s not my point.

This little tiny book has become one of my best friends. After all, it’s an outlet for all my insane thoughts. See? I’m not afraid to admit it, not afraid to admit that I’m insane right now. Because I know I am and I also know that it’s not a bad thing, whether you think it or not.

Who are you, by the way? I’ve been writing to you for so many years and you’ve never answered me. But you must be there, otherwise I’d just be talking to myself, and everyone knows that that’s a sign of craziness. Or genius. But I think if someone’s talking to himself, he’s crazy, not intelligent. I’m not crazy, like I already said. I’m just insane.

Would you like to know my story? Would you like to know how I came to be stuck in this pathetic little house just waiting for someone to come and knock on my door? No one ever will, of course, but maybe if you know a little more about me, you’ll want to come visit me. Or maybe you’ll be afraid, because people don’t like it when other people are perfectly sane. I hope you’ll understand. Please understand; I can’t stay here all alone all the time, even if I do have a little book and some mice to keep me company. They don’t talk back, but you will, won’t you? You’ll talk back, and you’ll be happy to stay here with me.

If you’re not scared, that is.