She Is Crazy They Told Me
She is Crazy They Told Me
She is crazy, they told me, nuts, certifiable.
Forgetting I am nuts, and crazy, striving for certifiable
"She said this..."
"She had this look on her face...."
"I heard that she....."
I do not hear anything else
The paragon of crazy has entered.
She has purple and blue streaks in hot-pink hair.
Not a wig, but just as delightful, maybe more so.
There is a sticker on each cheek of a spider.
Her forehead is sporting a spider web tattoo.
"Can I touch your spider?" I ask her, holding my breath.
She laughs; a tittering, happy, chime-ful laugh.
A faerie laugh.
The most delightful one I have heard.
The others scatter, taking the rest of their lunches with them.
She can clear out a lunchroom!
Whoa, she is better than I ever imagined.
"You are Caren," she says, "the crazy one."
"You are Wanda," I reply. "You look certifiable."
She asks if she can touch my cobra tattoos.
I tell her, sure, but she has to not try to pull on it, for
it actually covers up my witch mole.
Best friends, born instantly thanks to the
fear and thoughtlessness of the status quo women
who bore the life out of both Wanda and me.
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