Sandy Eggo

When my brain wheels are turning full throttle, and I can feel the anxiety levels starting to mount, like on a roller coaster when you’re inching your way to the top of the slope for that first horrifying plunge that launches your stomach into your throat, and makes your whole body rattle and roll so that you now know exactly what it would be like to go through life as a maraca, I need to hash my worries out with someone. But not just anyone will do.

What I like to do is drive right on past the exits for Normalton and Sane-Peopleville, and park my cranked-out jalopy in front of a mirror and pretend that I am talking to a celebrity. For a little one on imaginary-one celebrity therapy time.

Lately, as my San Diego departure time draws near, I’ve been conversing a lot with Edward Norton; he gets me. Plus, he is easy on the eyes and is the fluffer to my nutter.

So what usually happens in my delusional therapy sessions is that I run into Edward in some commonplace setting like the grocery store or on the subway. And naturally, I have a Siren-esque effect on him where he becomes so enticed by my charm that he invites me out to dinner, which is where I proceed to open up the Pandora’s box of lunacy that is my brain.

Then, depending on the mood that I’m in, the celebrity therapy session can go either one of two ways:

The first being that Edward is so enthralled by my tales that he decides to pen a screenplay based on my life. We then exchange digits and decide to meet everyday for as long as it takes to go over filming details - then I win an Oscar.

The second ending to my celebrity therapy session is a bit friskier, however. In this scenario, I pop the lid off my id and Edward comes back to my place where an entirely different kind of film is made.

In a nut shell, I’m a big, steaming pile of crazy. But with Edward’s help, I am like so ready to live in San Diego. Woot woot.