I had to take a personality test by Carl Jung at work the other day as a team building exercise. Everyone thought it was so much fun. They twittered around, cooing about how they were all natural born leaders and meant to be actresses or trustees. Mine said I was a sensitive, unorganized depressive with a penchant for the dark side and the last place I should be is in an office. After I read mine to the girls, I shoved the printout in my drawer and mumbled, “**** Carl Jung and his collective unconscious.”

            “Maybe you wouldn’t be so sad if you didn’t know so much,” one of them said. Maybe? I don’t drink to improve my memory.

            “Listen, according to Carl Jung, you are derived from the same primordial thoughts as I am. We have the same mind at our cores.” Blank stares, “I thought you’d see agree it’s ridiculous.” Ok so that Jungian wisdom sharing never took place. I’m terrified of talking to them about anything but shampoo and eyeliner.

Since I’m obsessed with myself, I took some more personality tests on line. One said I was borderline, sitting on the fence between neurosis and psychosis. And another one said I was schizotypal. I’m glad I at least have two personality disorders, I’d hate to be a one-dimensional wacko. I mask how uncomfortable I am with myself, by pointing out how strange everyone else is. Only the guys though, I can’t identify with chicks. I don’t really like them, and yes, that does imply an ipso facto element of self-loathing.

Do you ever think about death? I wonder sometimes if everyone has this problem I have. Where normality and happiness are a mesa surrounded by sheer cliffs. If you dance around in joy too much without looking where you’re going, eventually you’ll fall off the face of happiness. When I die I want my body driven around in a shiny black car so that everyone can see their reflections in it and see themselves in death.