I saw my psychiatrist yesterday to have the dosage of my meds adjusted, because one of the side effects of my anti-anxiety medication is anxiety. (Yeah. I know.) So we’re discussing that, and we’re going over strategies to deal with my Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder (itself an expression of anxiety), and I launch into some tangential story about friends who come into my apartment and blithely move things around after I’ve spent hours arranging everything just so, and he says, while tapping away at his computer, “hang on one second; I want to finish writing down everything you’ve said.”
At which point I review the talking points of the story I’ve just told and come down with a scorching case of the church giggles, because if he’s truly written down everything I’ve said, my medical records now contain the phrase “flying penis statue.”
Mental illness is sometimes a lot more entertaining than people give it credit for. In other news, I’m pretty sure someone at my insurance provider chokes on his coffee whenever he reads my claims.