Cuckoo

Who am I?  I never used to think twice about this.  I always thought I knew who I was.  A middle child, the odd one, the wayward one, the secretive, guilty one, the crazy as a cuckoo one.  I look back often, at the child I was, but my past is like a kaleidoscope, the colours change patterns with each decade that sits upon me.  What may have been a hurtful episode, a scary event, an upsetting time, seems different now.  I seem different.  Was that girl really me?  Feisty, funny, bubbling with life, musical, sporty, adventuress.  Now I’m not sure who I am?  What I am?  I’m blinded by my presumption of me.  The me I’ve always been.  The me that’s all of the above.  But what if I’ve got it wrong.  Maybe I’ve always been wrong.  Maybe I’m not me.  I’m someone else.  I’m a serious, intelligent, respected individual. 

Do crazy people know they are crazy, do the stupid see their stupidity?  Do ugly people know they’re ugly.  Are the bores aware they bore?  Can the comedians tell they’re funny without laughter?  I don’t think so.  But let’s imagine there’s an app one could download.  A ‘What are My Traits’ app.  Like Alexa.  ‘Alexa, what do people think of me?’  Or Google, ‘what’s my worst habit?’  Can you picture the effect?  ‘People think you are a total buffoon.’  ‘Stop that incorrigible crunching.’  ‘Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.’  Imagine if when you have a baby, a he or a she or it.  I used to call babies it and was scolded, into saying it’s he or she, don’t be so insensitive.  Now we’re encouraged to call them it, or is it they, them, their, there, hare, hair, bare, bear, too, two, you hoo.  No, come back, come back, I’ll behave.  

Anyhow, as I was saying, what if when you have a baby it’s born with projector eyes and shows you all your own personal steps in life, what you’ve been like throughout the years.  A girner, a joker, a pleasure, a pain, dirty, pernickety, stupid, bright.  Excuse me, I’m going to be sick, my baby has just put up a production of my youthful drinking days, and I’ve just downed a half litre of cider and am puking in the bushes, flickering fag ends lighting up the ground around.  Or maybe it would be better with a chip.  A microchip buddy not a French fried one or a stuck in your shoe aggravating little beggar chip.  What if we were chipped with an inbuilt self-checkout device.  No not for Tesco.  To check out yourself, like ‘how do people view me today chippy?’  ‘You are viewed as a narcissistic cow today.’  Oh!  How lovely would be the vein of thought. 

Maybe we are already chipped.  Have you ever had a thought, just a thought now, not a spoken word, and next thing popping up on your laptop is an advert for that thought?  Boob enlargement, liposuction, piercing, naturist holiday camps, plan your own funeral.  I mean how the…How does that even work?

Wait I know, a character alarm.  ‘Warning, warning, you are a dick today.’  A disposition detonator, buzz, buzz, ‘you should stay away from the human race for now.’  A charm ring, ‘ring, ring you’re exceptionally musical my dear.’  A behavioural band around the forehead internally displaying external viewpoints.  ‘Your halo has slipped.’  Or why not a personality mirror.  We could have them in the supermarket foyers, on the bus, the pub toilets.  ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the most beautiful and kind of them all.’  ‘Not you mate, you’re a narcissistic cow.’ 

Or how about a magnet that sticks you to people the same as you, then you only have to watch and listen to them to know what you’re really like.  ‘Good morning your Royal Highness, how simply divine to be spending time with you today.’  ‘Nurse, pass me the scalpel.’  ‘Lights, Camera, Action,’ I hear say as I look towards the fourth wall.  Do directors even still say that?  Lights, Camera Action?  Or are they conscious of their fellow workers sensitivities.  ‘Ok, in your own time my little beauties.’  Oh no, you can’t say that.  Oh well.  ‘Hello my supporters, what are your views on the Narcissistic Personality Disorder Theory?’  ‘Fuck off you little faker.’ 

Thank you all, my most valued friends, I know who I am now.  I was right enough all along.  I’m the middle child, the odd one, the wayward one, the secretive, guilty one.  I am indeed the crazy as a cuckoo one.