Category Archives: satire

Intellectual Symmetry

I’ll be damned. I just discovered I’m a sapiosexual.

Sapiosexual/Sapiosexuality (sā-pē-ō-sĕk-shü-ăl’ĭ-tē). A behavior of becoming attracted to or aroused by intelligence and its use. Origins: From the Latin root sapien, wise or intelligent, and Latin sexualis, relating to the sexes.

Had I known this core truth about myself years ago, it would’ve saved me two failed marriages; not to mention, a few misaligned hook-ups. But as things go, it takes time to discover something of this magnitude. I believe in the power of contrast. I feel it is why our world is so vast in nature. To develop a true understanding of one’s inclinations, desires and dreams, one has to be given a chance to sample the buffet that is offered in this world. Unfortunately, this sampling doesn’t happen quickly, or in a benign manner with plate in hand, ambling along a long table of life’s choices. Usually we find ourselves bound by a contract to someone we are quite certain is the anti-Christ or at least a first cousin thereof, and seated in a job that sucks the very marrow from our bones.

Once the realization is made however, it is up to us to choose differently – next time. Steering ourselves away from what we know we don’t want, and toward that which we feel we do. Even then, more tweaking might become necessary. Life isn’t black and white. Our choices are made out of many.  Even within the field of “getting warmer,” honing of our desires is vital. Not to find perfection. But to find true symbiotic harmony.

Romantically speaking, I refuse to sit across from a man whom I do not find intellectually stimulating. And as much as it may seem unnecessary to possess such an attribute for a simple romp in the hay – it still is for me. Where I’m concerned, foreplay isn’t simply the bandying about of sensual words. No. To me, nothing is more enticing than listening to a man share his intelligence. Not with false bravado and a look-at-me persona, but simply possessing profound knowledge within his field. A man who is good at his craft is an attractive thing. We are all artists, if what we do, we do well and with skill. I am not concerned about his profits. On the other hand, I do have great concern for his integrity, enlightenment and keen intellect.

Not all women are sapiosexuals; for that I’m glad. Let the others glean out the one’s with six-pack abs. A healthy fit body, yes. But one that is carefully carved – not necessary. The only way to open the floodgates of my passions and my body is through my mind. Which admittedly, is a bit impervious. However, such a feat is highly possible; providing one is clever enough to Spiderman their way up the wall.

As we age, it seems the majority fall into one of two categories: the earnest pursuit to fill a void by stuffing it with sexual pursuits or finding intellectual symmetry with another. I am tempted to rule one as better than the other, but who am I to say. Each of us is on a journey. And the journey should not be judged. With that said, I am pleased that I will no longer accept a copilot who doesn’t also see a similar horizon and the same peculiarities along life’s path. He’s out there, this person. Most likely with his nose buried in the map.


On Dating a Writer

My father, regardless of having just stated something incomplete, would often end his proclamation with the words: Period. End of sentence. My love of words was not fostered by his approach. However, my love for expression was.

I was speaking with a friend the other day. On the subject of the opposite sex he said, “Dating you requires a lot of responsibility. They want to, but quickly discover they can’t.” As you can imagine, I mulled his words over considerably. He was right.

I would like to say dating a writer is like dating anyone else. But it’s simply not so. That would be like saying driving a cargo van is like driving a sports car, or bicycling provides the same ride as a motorcycle. Oddly enough, when we crawl behind the wheel of a curve hugging coupe, rarely do we later fault it for hugging the corners tightly. And yet, it is known by my writing colleagues that the desire to date a writer is strong. But once settled in with one of us sitting beside them, they wonder why we think so much.

I had this happen recently while on an outing. This person placed on the table an incomplete situation. And, like my father, wanted for many reasons to put a period on the end of the sentence; regardless of its fragmented state. The woman I am, and the writer that lives within quickly flicked his purposeful period aside, and wanted to delve into the subtext; knowing lighter times, closure, or advancement is found upon doing so. This person whom sought out and pushed hard for a moment with me said, “You think too much.”

Please know dear readers, thinking is my bread and butter. But also, it is the crux of who I am. As kind as my words may be, the voice in my head rarely edits itself. After he spoke, I cast a glance to my side at his profile, and thought, “No shit Sherlock.”

I only know the thoughts of the writers within my close circle. One thing these gifted souls have in common is they are quite real. They express the whole of who they are. Perhaps due to the courage it takes to write, or the process of giving of oneself in this most intimate venue, we tend not to feel the need to veil ourselves. Generally, we can speak freely about most any subject without inhibition, fear or insecurity. What you see is, undoubtedly what you get. But we are without question a cerebral bunch. And often, our mind is the gatekeeper to our passions. If the mind is not properly enticed, the body refuses to follow suite. Unless of course enough wine has been introduced to the situation. In which case, even a tree begins to look handsome. A human flaw, most all possess. Coyote ugly extends both ways. To our credit, we usually pass out before entrapment occurs as our mind tends not to let us off the hook then either.

So to anyone considering sliding behind the wheel and taking a writer out on the open road, please remember – you wanted the experience. Do not fault us for not having enough storage space. Do not critique us for not being able to amble up a sandy hillside with big, knobby tires. We aren’t geared for those discoveries. Generally speaking we hit the long and winding road, and we do so with precision and acceleration. The hum under our tires rolls us toward our destination. But more so, the rhythmic sound of pavement unfurling underneath, will continually cause you to think as well. We have no desire to change our make and model – and never will. Of course, with that said, once you relax – its one hell of a ride.


The Kooks – Do You Wanna

Farmers Only

Well I’ll be damned. There’s now an online dating site dedicated solely for farm people. I wonder if they’d ever make such a site for writers?

As many of you know, I’m a curious cat. So yes – I did visit this Farmers Only dating website. But it seems one has to sign up; certifying they are over eighteen, own some livestock and agree to the terms and conditions. I’m being facetious. I apologize.

As I viewed the home page, with its small profile pics stacked one on top of the other, many wearing cowboy hats, I had to wonder what such a site would look like if it were for writers. Would we all be wearing glasses, like I am now? Would there be the random monocle? Would it show anyone with their shoulders so tight their head was about to pop clean off their neck? Or being a profile pic, would there be staged poses; elbow on knee, chin on fist. Respectable. Solid.

And God only knows what kind of personality questions one would have to answer. How often do you use your computer’s thesaurus? Can you spell restaurant without pausing midway? Do you dangle your participles?

Of course, the site would quickly separate the fiction writers from the non fiction. That’s a given. Or does it not work like that? Is there harmony found in pairing one up with their opposite. I think there is, as long as its not too extreme. In fact, I know for certain I do not want to date me. I talk to me every blasted day, why would I want to listen to someone similar to me anymore than I already do. I remember long conversations I once had with someone, months ago; I loved listening to them prattle. I was able to step outside of myself in those moments, and it felt lovely.

I’m actually being encouraged to try online dating, but I don’t think I will. I did it briefly for the purpose of research, and although I met one person out of the whole lot that I found pleasing. I don’t know if I like how squirrelly things can get. Often, I relegate those I meet to the category of friend simply to remove the oftentimes fickleness that rears up when the heart is involved. And then for the life of me I don’t know how anyone is to decipher those being honest from those that are not. It’s all so exhausting.

I can’t say my profile would be all that enticing anyway. I would however, want to inform them of a few things up front, and being a site for writers I would imagine I could speak with full expression. I’d let them know that oddly enough, even though I get cold easily, I like to sleep in a frigid room. I sleep on the left side of the bed, with one foot out, and don’t intend on changing. I could easily love dogs more than people, but that’s only because they love me without condition. I have yet to find a human who can do the same. I like to curl up in bed and watch the most peculiar of shows while eating. If I’m going to take the time to make love, then I want it to be with passion. I need to be left alone for stretches of time, solely so I can write. And when I write, I often mumble to myself. I’m not insane, just caught in the moment. I’m as much fascinated by all that I don’t know in life as that which I do. If I know someone is lying to me, I will at times choose to be a piss head, and ask them a few questions until such time as they’ve completely buried themselves. I have a phenomenal memory but can’t for the life of me remember the state capitols. I have a need for speed when it comes to machines. But only in that area. I’m a bit of a paradox and I fully admit to being a handful. But I’m honest. And those that have earned my friendship know that I would do most anything for them. To most, this is too complicated. Hence the reason, combined with the reasons above, that I’ve never ventured onto a dating site. And most likely won’t. So for now, it seems, the Farm People are safe.


God Help Me, There’s Another Elephant

Generally speaking, when the figurative elephant appears within the room, I’m the one to point it out. I can’t say I want to talk about the elephant. I have no use for the elephant. But I know the only way to remove the elephant, is by addressing it by name.

The way I look at it, the elephant is there due to something; there’s a reason that brought it into being. Heaven forbid it take up residency, so let’s all get rid of it before it has a chance to unpack its bags. But sadly, most people will crane their necks to look around the uncomfortable circumstance, rather than take steps to remove it. I don’t operate that way. Never have. Never will.

These bits and pieces of emotional debris and situational elephants, accumulate after time; making it hard to move around. I don’t want to get my hands dirty anymore than anyone else. And yet, out of a group, even a group as small as two, I’m the refuse collector. I want open pathways and the only way we’ll get those is to sweep up as we move along. One day, I hope to share this position with someone of like mind. But until then, I will assume this, all important, yet unpleasant task.

Not everyone wants to deal with things. One has to have an emotional backbone that’s not only strong, but quite mature. Gladly and sadly I can report that I have both, so it’s often me who bends to pick up the damaging fodder gathered in the corners. And as usual, once things are being picked up and tossed into the trash, they are looked at and questioned. “This still looks good. You sure we should pitch it?” But then it’s mutually decided, and into the wastebasket it goes. It’s an efficient system, when allowed.

I had to resign from a position within an organization due to this very problem. The President of the organization chose to see past the problems that would bring the organization to an imminent end. I wanted to rectify the problem if possible. Whereas I saw a sinking ship that needed repair, she only saw land sitting on the horizon. I couldn’t imagine how she supposed the ship was to skid upon shore if it was busy sinking at sea. As of the writing of this post, it was reported to me that the President jumped ship, and in the doing, left only a small crew behind to salvage what’s left. Apparently, her backbone paled in comparison to that of her crew.

When I was a kid, there was always a vegetable sitting upon my plate that I didn’t like. In my opinion, it ruined everything. But I didn’t like that outcome, as I wanted only to savor the things on my plate that were my favorites. In fact, ever since smelling things roasting in the oven, I had looked forward to enjoying dinner. So I did what any reasonable person would do, I bit the bullet and ate the vegetable first, getting it out-of-the-way. To enjoy life or people, we need a clear path. Sometimes this means removing the one thing we don’t like so we can enjoy those things that we do. In life and love, I don’t want anything standing in my way. And within both, there will always be random elephants and debris. It’s just how it goes. It’s delusional to think otherwise. Now, I won’t say elephants are easy to confront. And, I won’t say dealing with the debris of life is a clean and easy task. But I will say – it’s the only way.


We Come Running – Youngblood Hawke

Dare I Say…Quirky.

Famed author, John Cheever, dressed in suit and hat, then with everyone else, rode the elevator down to the lobby. Once there, he’d walk down to the basement, strip to his boxers and write.

Favorite of mine, D.H. Lawrence, was known for climbing mulberry trees in the nude; something to do with the long limbs and rough bark stimulating his thoughts. Hemingway often wrote in the nude. In that state, he’d stand, with his typewriter on the table, waist-high before him.

Even when we step beyond mere writing habits, writers seem to set the bar quite high in regard to being the most unusual of people. James Joyce, author of Ulysses, enjoyed the smell of women’s farts, as well as being spanked. Irish poet and playwright, W.B. Yeats had monkey glands inserted into his scrotum; invigorating both his sex life and his creativity. Its true: writers are very peculiar people. Dare I say – quirky.

Although I do not sit with a desk drawer full of rotten apples, as German poet, Schiller did, I do consider myself a bit left of center. To change that would be to change my view of the world, the angle by which I perceive all things. To change my quirkiness would be to change – me, as it’s a nuance that sits at my core. It’s a systematic condition, but one that plays a large part in producing all of my varying colors. I don’t mind this. And why should I? To do so would be to take myself too seriously. Nothing sinks one’s ship faster than taking themselves too seriously. As I sail from point to point, as I write and move along with life, I do so with unabashed pride in the peculiarity that is me.

I do not see these things as faults. And when one does, it’s a marker of how they view themselves, in addition to how they view life: critically. Just as I marvel at the quirky, odd-shaped, two-headed tomato, I also stare in awe at the flower who’s petals aren’t colored like the rest. The best things in life are those that allow themselves to simply – be. Never curtailing to popular opinion. Never cowering under conformity. The smartest amongst us know: popular opinion changes like the wind. So let it change. And conform only when doing so suits you. As for me, I don’t want to conform. As there is no box, large enough to keep me.

Off I go now, to climb a mulberry tree.


Written to: Oh Love by Green Day

And…How Does That Make You Feel?

It’s a statement that’s taken on comedic connotations. However, as statements go, there’s none that carry more meaning as it relates to one’s life, than: how does that make you feel?

The mind, both the conscious and the subconscious, controls everything having to do with our personal being. The you that is you; the me that is me; all controlled and dictated by the mind. And when it comes to this inner aspect of our lives, feelings, work much like that of a rudder on a ship. Not only do our feelings stir us, and bring us to life; they also steer us, and move us in different directions.

We do nothing, without the purpose of producing a certain feeling. Oddly enough, we do many things knowing full well it’ll bring about negative feelings. But if we believe there’s something useful in the feeling, we continue on. For the most part, we always move in the direction of that which we believe will make us feel good. Humans tend to enjoy feeling good. Pleasure is an essential nutrient to life.

We’d put our hand directly in the flames if not for the fact that it feels horrific to do so. Pain is just as important as pleasure; it tells us what to avoid or if something has gone wrong. One is a green light, one is a red. We need both. Within every experience, bar none, rests both extremes: pleasure and pain. When a kiss goes awry, the need to escape it, is darn near painful. When a kiss is sweet, the pleasure experienced draws the mouth back for a second taste. When one over indulges in a meal, the body painfully rebukes such gluttony. When one is hungry, savoring slowly the meal before them, the taste buds come alive with pleasure.

For many, they wake with pain already resting in their heart and mind before even having stepped into their day. For years, having ignored or downplayed their feelings, they’re now inundated with a life absent of all pleasure; one that is painful to the core. But when moving in the direction of our choosing, pleasure rests in the heart; the mind comes alive. Even during the most uncertain moments – we feel good.

The next time life presents a situation, one in which your feelings are mounting. Relax upon the dark leather sofa of your inner therapist and listen to the voice that asks: how does that make you feel? More important than the answer, is to exam why. Because it’s often within the why that we learn what we need to learn about ourselves.


Honored to be Honored

Oh, Wandering Voiceless, how very kind of you. I discovered, this morning, that this very charismatic blogger, nominated the Insanity Blog for the Reader Appreciation Award. I accept this nomination with a grin, and a warm heart. Thank you, thank you – thank you very much (Yes, I said that like Elvis).

Now, down to business: there are rules to be followed upon being nominated. Rules, some of which, I failed to follow once after a previous nomination. The rules are:

1.  Thank the person who nominated you and include a link to their site.

2.  Nominate other people (you choose how many–whatever makes you happy).

3.  Write some bad ass things about yourself. 

In accordance with the rules:

1.  Please see initial, heartfelt, first paragraph – located above. Please scroll.

2. My nominations are:

May I nominate the blogger who nominated me? Well, I don’t see any small print that indicates otherwise, so my first nomination goes to: Wandering Voiceless. A thinker after my own thoughts. A joy.

 The Boy With A Hat. Yummy thinking, at least yummy to this writer.

Notes From a She-Hermit or ‘Being Mental and Loving It’. By Dotty Headbanger. Just pure enjoyment. Plain and simple. If you don’t believe me, head to Dotty’s Collected Profanities and Insults page.

 Jason’s Jukebox. A nice, nice place to mull around.

 Cristian Mihai. A writer’s refuge.

3.  I don’t know if the world is ready for me to reveal what I’m about to reveal. My bad-assness, my secrets finally spoken, my weird flag allowed to flap free in the wind. But I’m going to do it anyway:

Every morning, without fail, I burn my steel-cut oats. I set them to slow simmer, then completely forget about them until I smell something odd.

I’m terrible with names, and often fail to listen to what’s being said after an introduction as I’m quietly repeating the person’s name in my head; Felicia, Felicia…Feleeeshhaa.

I’m a creature of habit. If ever my brain were dropped on the floor during a routine lobotomy, my body (due to years of habitual use), would carry on quite nicely without anyone being the wiser.

I’m an inventor. Don’t ask of what. I have no intentions of telling.

I write not only because I want to, but because I have to.

I pull my Band-Aids off  – fast, real fast.

If I could survive on dark chocolate, caramel, oats, red wine and coffee – I would.

I see myself in a completely different light than everyone else sees me.

If I could possess one superhuman, superhero capability it would be the Cloak of Invisibility. Oh, the places I would go…

I’m a third generation Harley rider.

I was born on the Virgo/Libra cusp – astrologically speaking, I’m a force to reckon with.

I could never blatantly kill someone. Not for fear of moral issues or spiritual repercussions. But for fear that one small particulate found under special lightning will lead the fuzz right to my door. Damn that CSI.

In my senior year of high school, I was once accused of being a Satanist.

I find the smell of nature to be nearly intoxicating.

I gasp if my pants accidentally brush up against a public toilet.

According to the FDA, I consume more than the recommended allowance of tuna per week, per my body weight. It seems if the drugs, sex and rock n’ roll don’t do me in – tuna will.

I believe in miracles, but I don’t believe in Santa.

Well there ya’ go, folks. Tidbits and factoids. A few things you may or may not have already known about me. One thing, I can not go without saying however. As its imperative that you understand – I value my readers more than you know. A review by a critic is one thing, a review by a reader, one much like me, is what makes my heart sing. To know that someone let their eyes scan upon my words, the working’s of my mind, for a few minutes or a few days – well, that’s what this writer’s journey is all about. Thank you for that – truly. My novels and books are all stories spun around others. Yes, there is always me entwined. However, this little blog, is the story of me. Thank you for stopping by. Every nomination, like, share, reblog and scan is appreciated.


Last Bit of Energy

I have a slew of shortcomings – some – more serious than others. One of those many shortcomings has intensified over the course of the last week. Embarrassingly, I must confess to spending a great deal of my energy draining the last drop of juice (scientific term), from batteries.

At present, the batteries in my toothbrush and television remote are stretching the boundaries of electrical feasibility and common-sense expectation. Powered by what has to be only electrical vapors, my toothbrush now intermittently cuts out while using it. I whack the toothbrush on the bathroom counter hoping to jar loose the last remaining particle of chemical energy stored inside. And while using the TV remote, I’ve now taken to wielding my arm around wildly while pressing brutishly on the buttons. Hand to God – I’ve met with some success using both of these methods.

It’s not just that the batteries are expensive. Its more than that. Although, I will say, I’m not fond of dropping a small fortune on a small, but heavy, bag of batteries. But that’s not it. The problem is I don’t care for the whole process of replacing the batteries.  Best case scenario: one good pop and the little trap-door opens, the old batteries tumble onto the floor or they get pried from their little cocoon with my fingernail. Worst case scenario: discovering that dreaded, almost invisible screw that seals the battery door closed, and subsequently, impenetrable to those that do not have, readily available, an itsy bitsy screwdriver.

I would think I’d be eager to swap out the old batteries. The thrust of life that surges through the toothbrush once its humming on fully loaded batteries is reason enough to prematurely change them. But no. I patiently wait, allowing time for a slow, agonizing death. Finally, once the battery has coughed up its last spittle of energy, I reluctantly wriggle the cap from the bottom of the toothbrush. Taking the appropriate time to clean the dried toothpaste from places near impossible for it to travel, I replace the batteries (placing them upside down before placing them right side up), then beat the tar out of the toothbrush for about ten minutes in an attempt to get the cap back on. After utilizing Hercules-like strength, I finally succeed; pushing the button, the brush springs to life.

I should try, for a while, living life fully charged. Doing so would require breaking some well ingrained bad habits, but I think it would be worth a try. It seems though, I would rather waste my energy, which is better used for other pursuits, than (God forbid), waste the few drops of energy left in a battery about the size of my pinky. Knowing this about myself though – I think I’m going to change my ways.


I Just Don’t Give a F*ck

I swear more than most. If you didn’t know that about me – now you do. I don’t run around letting loose expletive after expletive. It’s not like that. But when my guard is down, I will admit to dropping the F bomb, both as a colorful or cursed adjective, noun or adverb.

I don’t hold any personal convictions regarding cursing. I also don’t have any religious hang ups that may persuade me from using any certain word. I do, however, try to reign in my full spectrum vocabulary when around certain individuals; not because of me, but because of them. I never want to offend anyone. And oddly enough, even when an expletive is not directed toward them, some are offended when one is said. I don’t operate that way. I’m only hurt when something is aimed toward me.

When communicating, the whole goal is to engage others in the conversation. Thus, if certain words are off-putting to some, I try to omit them. Occasionally however, they slip from my lip like spittle from a newly Novocained mouth.

I find it odd that expletives are considered so terrible. An expletive is simply a word. A conglomeration of letters that have no power by themselves. The power is in the intent. Like a gun, the word is harmless – the damage rests solely in where it is aimed and how it is used. I use my expletives carefully. Sometimes however, the best adjective in my arsenal of words, is an expletive – plain and simple. 

Words of hate are the ones that make my skin tighten and my mind recoil. As a society, I feel those are the words that mark the underpinnings for which we should be concerned. Words prohibited in my home: stupid, retarded and nigger, among others. I suppose I’m off on this, but I feel those are the words that should get everyone’s dander up and be retired. The right word has the potential and power to reconfigure a person’s life – it can save a life, it can end a life.

Within the walls of my home, words of hate are unacceptable, as are words of racism. Racist words are damaging and prove only ignorance on the part of the one speaking them. 

Compared to words of hate, the F bomb seems like a minor infraction. I’m probably one of the only few that views words in this way. And, If I’ve ever offended anyone, I apologize.

I will never understand this type of vicarious offense. I’m happy when someone is speaking freely, sharing a part of themselves with me – use whatever word you wish. I don’t mind. Whether through speaking, writing or music, I feel the world would run a bit smoother if all styles were openly accepted. If we are to put into place invisible rules governing behavior and expression, let those rules be: acceptance of others, govern only yourself and never hate someone simply because they appear different. 

With writing, there are many (too many), eager to say what is acceptable and good writing and what is not. And I’m certain, many will throw the gavel down and render my writing as crudely hammered prose. And that is fine. Because I really don’t give a… 


Written to: Nirvana – Where Did You Sleep Last Night

Bitterness of Ecstasy

Human emotions are fickle. They make us do things that clearly make no sense, yet at the time, seem only justified. Hence the new robin’s egg blue nightie, still in its bag at the foot of my bed. A purchase made to make me feel ‘better.’

Did the purchase make me feel better: not really. And the sight of the oh-so-feminine pink lingerie bag with its thick ribbon handles only reminds me that I may not even keep the nightie. Although I will say the robin egg blue color does indeed cause my eyes to brighten when I glance at it. After all, the color blue is scientifically proven to cause what can only be described as ‘teeny tiny mini orgasms within the eye.’ This is true. I read it in a science journal the name of which I can’t remember. Yes, I read science journals.

The stack of books I bought prior to buying the nightie has already been cerebrally chewed through. The books won’t be going back.

I had someone question my sanity recently. It’s a peculiar, somewhat shocking thing when that happens. Much like biting into something you think will taste pleasant, but doesn’t. At first you laugh, but the taste lingers until you cringe. I have a steady hold on my mind, hence the ability to easily dive into the psyches of the many characters that live within my novels. I could only dive into those emotional, creative waters safely, because I trust my ability to swim.

Life, however, is a bit insane to me. Or at least, it feels that way. I’m scarred considerably by the legal system and the near decade of having lived with a pathological liar. Those events changed me, but they never took away my sanity.

To be sane, I have to allow my mind to run wild like a child now and again; to laugh when I’m not suppose to, and to make a decision or two that I know damn well I shouldn’t make. When the mind is held too tight, it suffocates. Mine, it seems, is held together quite nicely with flexible Gorilla Glue: it ain’t coming apart anytime soon.

Of course those that have had the unfortunate fate of having lived with insanity, or have been scarred by actions of insanity, view the subject like an omnipresent stranger encircling their home. And I understand. That is exactly how I view lies or when things don’t add up. In fact, I’m ashamed to say, I recently overreacted due to something not adding up in my mind. By doing so, my finger was the first to flick a very discouraging line of dominoes. I regret that now; not that I brought my fears to the table, but that I allowed my fears to encompass more than the topic at hand. My fear set off the other person’s fears and here we are now: one robin’s egg blue nightie later.

Sanity is looking my actions (demons), in the eye and dealing with them for what they are. Insanity is allowing those demons to rule my life. The only time I will allow insanity into my life is when I allow myself to fall clumsily and happily and insanely in love. I can’t say allowing myself to do so will be easy, my instinct will be to run for the hills. I know me. But I’m too old to let fear rule my life. I recently learned that the hard way – a bitter discovery.