I need a coat of arms made up, with "People Are Stupid" in Latin and whatever the heraldry is for "retard rampant." A drooling gryphon or something. I'm serious. People. Scare. Me. I feel apprehensive about leaving the house and going out into the world and I live in INDIANA!!! This is redneck central. I once thought Indiana was in a realative safe zone. Oh how I loved the days when the stupidity rate was only about 7:10. Well... the stupid people are on the move. Sadly, I believe the rate has increased (esp. since Bush's rein of command. And Katriana. Come one verbally smack me. I dare you.) to a staggering 9:10.

Believe me, it's true. Just go to Wal-Mart.

As Ron White says, "You can't fix stupid." Well... unless you're God. And well... I'm not God. No one needs to remind me that I'm very much grounded here on earth amongst the scum of the... umm... world. Nope! I can't make them see the error of their ways as much as I'd like to. But... I can play God: I can write. Sounds horrible, I know. But anyway... I won't go here.

So... I'd like to write a book. Someday. Not now. It'd be fun!! My brain is full of stories that I could make come alive. MY stories. Ones that are not inhibited with... stupid people.

But... I have a dilemma. Everyone knows that even a halfway competent writer is required to have some sort of horrible psychological and/or medical problem.

1. Johnathan Swift: nicknamed the "mad parson", was obsessed with counting and bodily functions, in his old age his manservant showed him off to the public for a small fee

2. Hans Christian Andersen: hypochondriac, constantly carried a coil of rope for fear of being caught in a hotel fire

3. James Joyce: an underwear fetishist who kept a small set of "doll's knickers" in his pocket and pulled them out at parties

4. Marcel Proust: wrote most of his novels while lying in bed in a room lined with cork, had a sexual fixation with butchers, pierced live rats with hat pins

5. Samuel Johnson: apparently suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder and hypochondria, was unable to tell time by reading a clock

6. Edgar Allen Poe:  uh... no comment necessary.

I have come to the conclusion that, in order to be published, I must acquire some sort of eccentric malady. Carpal tunnel and hypothyroidism doesn't quite seem to fit the bill, so perhaps I should cultivate a fear of staplers or squeegees? I have issues with elevators but that doesn't seem cool enough.

I shall ponder this question....