I have been Diagnosed.
Last night, my uncle-the-psychiatrist informed me that I’m borderline manic, whatever that means.
All I did was announce that I want to take all of the next generation of cousins to Disney World. There are seven of them, ranging in age from 13 to 3, not counting my brother’s son, who’s 4 months and nowhere near weaned.
What’s so manic about that?
That’s not manic — it’s self-destructive.
Have you totally lost your instinct for self preservation?
Don’t you think it’d be fun?
I’ve taken a gaggle of young ‘uns that age to Six Flags. What I learned is you gotta outnumber ‘em — preferably several to one — if you expect to live through the experience.
Fun? On a scale where a root canal rates a 10 on the Funmeter, that experience rates 100.
But I’m a crabby old guy.
Better ‘borderline manic’ than ‘borderline-manic’ which would be too scary to contemplate. Your bedroom doesn’t happen to be filled with stuffed plush animals by any chance, does it?
David