I told the psychiatrist that she would look good with a pencil-thin mustache, I mean if she let me draw one. Kind of like a unisex Dali. She smiled at me as if I was something she recognized from outer space. It was embarrassing to be at a loss for words. I said You want to hear something funny? A nice young man who was probably misdiagnosed as his mother’s eardrum asked me if I were on a diet. The thing was he was almost disappearing like me. She didn’t laugh. She used almost no make-up. I lit a cigarette. I said that when I was young I would paint eggs blue at Easter. Mother said not to throw them out. There are so many starving children everywhere. I said right now I can paint you a blue silence. Well, it’s all about self-worth, isn’t it? I finally asked. I mean this whole business about psychiatry. When she wouldn’t commit to an answer, it reminded me of Warhol during interviews. Tell you this much, I said, I’ll always be the kind of girl who needs a wall to lean against. Most of the walls I’ve encountered in my various lives were too thin or too thick. Later, they placed me on a floor where there were quite a few schizophrenics. Even the word sounded crazy to me. Another label to slap you with when someone wants to preserve their own image. Out in the courtyard, we stood at odd angles from each other, not saying a word. But I could hear them with perfect clarity. They thought I was an egg-shaped alien with cracks running down my sides.

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