unsick

I'm up against the wall again. I somehow always manage to walk myself straight up to that same wall, politely turn around, and press my back against it-like a good little girl. Now...I'm beginning to suspect that if its becoming a pattern...I do it because I like it. Sick. Subconsciously, of course. But still-sick.
Wait...what is sick anyway? and what's..."unsick"? Damn! I hate it when im comfortably writing about little egotistical nothings and an annoying, pain in the ass question decides to grace my already messed up head with its unwanted presence. ناقصة أنا؟! ما هى متلصمه خلقة! أحا!
Ok, lets get it over with. Sick, psycho. What? we use this word or that when describing a peculiarity of character. Something that "society" would"gasp" at. God! just that last sentence makes me wanna do "pycho" all the time!(Yes-im racist). Look, lets cut a looooong, boring story short...
In society, there is a uniform way of doing things. We know every little rule by heart. Act out our roles to perfection. The refined, cultured you. The "representation" of that which is "Human" (just in case God or aliens are watching)
And then there's the other you. The "sick" you. The "psycho" me. Inside our heads. Our closest relationships. Our homes. Rooms. Closets. Bags. Ipods. Fridges. Bookshelves. Prayers. Dreams. Beds. Garbage cans.
I stink at conclusions. Conclusions stink anyway. You do the math-or not. Don't care.