Buck’s friend says I’m one taco short of a combo plate. That I’m a few cards short of a deck. He thinks I’m a few fries short of a happy meal. A few bricks short of a load. A few clowns short of a circus, a few bradys short of a bunch, a few bits short of a byte, a few sandwiches short of a picnic, a few states short of a map, a few kernels short of a cob, a few ladies short of a gaga, a few minutes short of an hour nouns short of a verb heres short of a there nows short of a when trains short of a wreck ifs short of a then me short of a you you short of a me. I’m staying silent. I am not going to argue that I’m not bat shit crazy. That my cheese didn’t slide off my cracker. My lift goes to the top. The lights are on and I’m home and my deck is full and I’m on my rocker and hinged, and I am knitting with both needles. My screws aren’t loose I’m screwed if they are. Who says I’m barking and loco and bonkers and bananas and insane in the membrane, and cookoo for coco puffs mental mad multiple potty loopy. Who? Who? Have I lost the plot?