I talk to myself now. I used to think that people didn’t become insane until at least 35. But I have realized that college is the breeding ground for all of the crazies in this world. My theory is that if college is the place where we ‘find ourselves,’ some of us find that we are simply insane. I’m not talking about the clinically insane, straightjacket wearing, bouncing off white walls type of insane. The insanity I’m talking about concerns the smaller odd habits we develop. For example, I talk to myself.

Yup, all the time. You can often see me walking down the street having a full-blown conversation between me … and me. I don’t talk too loud, mind you, but enough for people to notice. Usually, I move my lips and say the words under my breath. I may even nod if I really approve of what I’m saying. I don’t really know when I start talking, but I always catch myself at some point. When I do, I wonder, ‘Did anyone see me or hear me?’ and always tell myself no … literally. I tell myself, ‘Don’t worry. No one is paying attention. Now what were you saying about your pencils? You buy a 20 pack and lose them within a week? Then you feel bad for asking someone to borrow a pen because you know they don’t want to be bothered …’ Oh, sorry. I forgot you were there. So yeah, I have that crazy quirk going for me.

Often, I put myself in a situation where someone made me upset. College professors usually get the brunt of this one. To be more specific, it’s my philosophy professor from freshman year. I develop a whole scene in which I storm into his office and begin telling him off. And let me tell you, this scene is pretty dramatic. I would easily compare it to the sequence in Footloose when Kevin Bacon tries to convince the preacher that the town should have permission to dance. And yes, I do this all while walking down the street.

Anyway, I storm into the office and say (out loud, to myself), ‘Professor, all the students think your style of teaching is atrocious.’ (When I talk to my teachers in Fake Land, I use words like atrocious.) ‘You come in every day and talk like you are trying to impress us, not teach us. Listen here, buddy, the whole class can’t understand a word you say, and if we could grade you, you would get a U for unenthusiastic, unprofessional and unbearable. You are an unorganized, babbling old man. All we want to do is dance, dammit!’

If I really give the professor a verbal lashing, I imagine coming out of the office while all of my classmates applaud, which gives me the opportunity to make a victory speech, which makes me talk to myself even more.

Along with that kooky practice, college has made me kind of obsessive-compulsive. My alarm clock can testify to that. It can because it can talk. Every night, I set my alarm. I know that I have set it for the right time, but, as I begin to close my eyes, the alarm asks me, ‘Seth, are you sure you set me for the right time?’ Even though I know I set if correctly, I have to check. Sometimes I try to resist the urge, but then I can’t fall asleep because I’m too worried. What if I miss my class? What if I wake up 30 minutes late and the professor gives me a smart remark like, ‘So, I’m glad you decided to join us. Wait, aren’t you the kid who talks to yourself?’

The positive is that my career as an obsessive-compulsive is really on the up and up. I was just recently promoted to another clinical term called Paper Hand-in Paranoia. It’s a classic case, really. When a paper is due, I always put the paper in my folder the night before and then put the folder in my backpack. No problems, right? Well, no. I can’t believe that I was organized enough to put the paper in my backpack, so I check my bag to see if I have put the paper inside of it throughout the day. I may check my bag 10 times if the class is late enough. This all comes from fear of being the kid who gets to class, only to realize that he has forgotten his assignment and must grovel at the foot of a professor. (Read this in a begging voice.) ‘Oh, professor, spare me this one folly, for I am a mere peon when standing in your bright light of power and brilliance. The paper will be in your hands as soon as possible. And please, could you spare any water, for building your pyramids in this hot sun is difficult.’

College has certainly messed with my brain, but not enough to make me believe I can’t control objects with my mind. Nope, they can’t take that away from me. This gift is most evident at a ‘T’ station. If a train is late, I will scour in the direction from which it will arrive. Why? Because if I scour, it will come faster, obviously. This isn’t an angry scour; it’s an intense ‘I’m controlling the subway with my mind’ scour. The scour always works: a train always comes. So, if you are ever standing at a ‘T’ station with me, and the train is very late but eventually arrives, you have my scour to thank, and I seriously expect you to.

I really don’t know why this is happening to me. Maybe it’s the pressure, or the mescaline, but one thing I do know is that I need help. I need to talk to somebody. I need to have a nice long conversation … with myself.