My Wife Is A Whore

Well, at least according to one of the schizophrenic patients in lockdown at the psych unit where she’s currently rotating. I know the stripper heels, assless chaps and sports bra she normally wears to the hospital may give that impression, but her dress is only a reflection of her insecurities and not of any whorish behavior of which I’m aware. I suggested sneaking patients out to a ballgame might help them bond – it worked in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. But Wrigley Field is closed for the season and the patients’ anti-social behavior might even be considered boorish by Cubs fan standards.

Which brings me to the point of this post (as if any of these posts ever have a point)… a rare lesson in semantics. Despite a string of English teachers in high school who took the enjoyment out of writing and literature, I try to pick up a book once in a while and try to get things right when I write despite an unhealthy volume of both sentence fragments and run-on sentences. As the great Steve Martin has said, “Some people have ways with words, and other people just not have ways.” Or something like that. But I digress.

Now anyone reading this blog regularly, or even just the last post, probably recognizes that most people annoy me and I don’t go out of my way to talk to people. But those same people inexplicably seek me out despite my scowl and air of indifference. I can sit on the beach with headphones on and a hat pulled down over my eyes, and a 20 year old blonde girl in a bikini will ask me to watch her backpack while she goes for a swim. And then tell me all about her bike, how she got the bike, and the triathlon for which she is training. I go to the bar at lunch and the bartender tells me all about her kids, her ex-husband, her current boyfriend and their military service when I simply asked for some ketchup. I mention a concert to a friend on the train, and suddenly half the train car is treating me like their social director, asking details about the band, the music, the venue, directions, and what they should wear. It’s all an endless source of amusement for those who know me. But again, I digress.

Bottom line is that I frequently classify myself as unsocial or asocial. However, many folks try to tell me that I’m anti-social. Wrong. According to the American Psychiatric Association the key feature for antisocial personality disorder is “a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood or early adolescence and continues into adulthood." Also, three or more of the following are required (at least according to Wickipedia, which we all know is written by slutty teenage girls and Romanian prostitutes (or is that myspace?)):

1. Failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest;
2. Deceitfulness, as indicated by repeatedly lying, use of aliases, or conning others for personal profit or pleasure;
3. Impulsivity or failure to plan ahead;
4. Irritability and aggressiveness, as indicated by repeated physical fights or assaults;
5. Reckless disregard for safety of self or others;
6. Consistent irresponsibility, as indicated by repeated failure to sustain consistent work behavior or honor financial obligations;
7. Lack of remorse, as indicated by being indifferent to or rationalizing having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another.

It’s a good thing I lack the key feature, because I nailed numbers 1, 2, 3, 5 and 6.

1. I routinely roll through stop signs, risking arrest by an overzealous traffic cop.
2, I think it’s obvious Sid F’er is not my real name.
3. I ran out of floss this week, clearly an indication that I fail to plan ahead. And I probably flossed impulsively after a meal in addition to my normal bedtime flossing.
5. I repeatedly stick Q-tips in my ears despite being warned not to and I encourage others to do the same. I also ride my bike to work and encourage others to ride in traffic.
6. I have a parking ticket from 1992 on my record for which I still owe $50.
2. I lied about #6 just to sound cool. I paid the ticket last month.

I don’t fight anymore (#4) because I got tired of getting my ass kicked. At a minimum I usually dislocate the ring finger on my right hand. And I do feel remorse (#7) even when people have it coming.

But none of that matters because I still lack the key feature of antisocial personality disorder so stop calling me antisocial or I’ll kick your ass and eat your dog.

Now the Mrs., on her psych rotation, when not being called a whore or being told by another patient that she is going to get her fired for not pulling her hair back in a ponytail, is learning how to properly classify all the nutcases in her life and has confirmed that it’s not antisocial personality disorder from which I suffer, but merely avoidant personality disorder (and that affinity for run-on sentences). There’s a whole other set of criteria for APD, but I won’t bore you with more of my drivel. It can only lead to reinforcing my pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation and avoidance of social interaction. Thank you for your understanding. Please don’t hate me.