I didn’t realize how crazy I was until just the other day, when a reader told me I made perfect sense. That was a scary moment. I thanked her for her compliment, of course, and agreed with her as far as possible without letting on that she had completely missed the point of what she had read and replaced it with her own. Afterward, though, I thought about what she had said, and realized she was as crazy as I was. Naturally, I wrote and told her so. And the strangest thing happened: she took what I said as a compliment, without letting on that I had missed her point entirely. I know this because, after reading her response eight or ten times, I understood that she had meant something quite different than what I had thought she had meant when she wrote to me the first time to say I had made perfect sense. When she said that, she didn’t actually mean it. Well, she meant it, but not in the way that I had initially thought. What she had meant was that I had made sense for the first time, and that she was astonished by this sudden development. When I replied with this revelation, I also couldn’t help asking why, if I had never made sense before, she had continued to read my work. Her answer was as charming as it was succinct. She said, “Because I like the way you make a fool of yourself. It makes me feel good.” Once again, I thanked her for her compliment. Not to be outdone, I added one of my own. I said, “I enjoy your sense of humor.” And she said, “I was being serious.” And I said, “That’s exactly my point.” After that, she didn’t write for several minutes. Afraid I had offended her, I wrote again and asked how the weather was where she lived, and added, almost as an afterthought, that I didn’t even know where she lived. Her reply was brief. She said it was raining, and to leave her alone. “But I can’t leave you alone,” I said. “There is too much I don’t know about you. For instance, what is your favorite color?” She replied, “None of your business. It’s blue.” Blue. That meant something. I was sure of it. And so for the next several hours, I peppered her with similar questions: what is your favorite food? what is your favorite song? etc., etc., until finally she said something that hit me so hard I fell out of my chair. She said, “My mom says I have to go now.” Her mom! I was stunned — until her mother wrote to me and said, “You will have to excuse my daughter. I need her to take me to the doctor.” And so I quickly replied, “Dear Mom. I hope it’s nothing serious.” Her reply? “I’m sure you’re sicker than I am.” My next thirty messages were ignored. I tried writing to my new friend again the next day, and the day after that, but still, I received no answer. Finally, her mother wrote. She said, “My daughter has gone for treatment. She will be gone for quite some time. Now. Where were we?” I didn’t reply, of course. Who wants to talk to a nut?
Also by William Michaelian

Winter Poems

ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
52 pages. Paper.
Another Song I Know
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
80 pages. Paper.
Cosmopsis Books
San Francisco

Signed copies available

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