The mental patient is positively drunk with it and a self-loathing chaser.  When she’s like this, she’s in her own little cloud of self-inflicted torment.

It is hilarious to behold.

But my real point is this: yeah, I like my space, I like my downtime, but there’s only so much curtain-climbing and other-cat-harassing I can do before I start wishing for the digits that would enable me to call the ASPCA. 

Here’s the deal: the mental patient sent a query letter to a producer about one of her scripts.  He said, (I’m paraphrasing.) yes, please send it.

Anyone not a mental patient would be clear on what the drill is here.  Print, envelope, address, postage, done.  Right?

Oh, our sensitive mental patient, for her nothing can be so simple, not so hard on the heels of a recent rebuff from another producer.  Let’s call him, “The guy who made tonight a living hell who is probably just some jackass calling himself a producer because anyone can call themselves a producer. ” 

Or let’s just call him “this douche” for short.

The mental patient is hell-bent on addressing the potential concerns raised by this douche before sending the script out to someone new.

She doesn’t know who this douche is, but suddenly the script that was A-OK to send to this douche now must be contextualized.  The mental patient would like to clarify areas that confused this douche before sending it to subsequent douches–sorry–producers. 

The mental patient fully admits the confusion is not her fault but instead a result of this douche’s reading comprehension skills, but the mental patient is Catholic, so when there is any question about whose the blame is, she takes it.  Because of course she secretly loves it. 

Guilt.  She’s soaking in it.

Actually, her idea is pretty cute, but I’m not sure it’s necessary, she’s not sure it’s necessary, but, being the mental patient, given this kind of uncertainty, she will choose the harder path for herself, just to be on the safe side.

It must be lonely there up on your cross, mental patient.