Are You Paranoid?

Not as in thirty hour coke binge, scratching at your face to get at the ants crawling under the skin, Fear and Loathing, radio signals from your filings, living in a faraday cage, hearing voices in the 60Hz hum of your power supply kind of way. Just the more simple, irrational fear of the unlikely.

I am, to a greater extent than I'd like to admit.

Things like sudden gusts of wind, lifting me up and over the safety barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge and sending me hurtling into a statistic which I will neither deserve or ever attain.

Purchasing additional insurance for a rental car even though my credit card covers it and I have never caused an accident in my life (only been hit the once), but I am easily manipulated by women in green blazers who assure me that I'm looking like I'm "giving out a crashin' vibe".

Or breaking into a cold sweat when five feet away from my unlocked bicycle in the kids section of Golden Gate Park (I think some of them are midgets and not kids, on the prowl for sippy cups and Baby Bjorn Cell Phones (and yes, I realize their legs are too short to reach the pedals, but that doesn't mean they couldn't have a partner midget and each could take a pedal a la one of those movies with midgets in it (which by the way, isn't nearly enough))).

But I try and fight it in little ways if I can. I just hope that perhaps that every little victory over paranoia will make future battles easier. Which is why I've been so adamant about never double checking to make sure my mail goes down when I drop something off in the corner mailbox. Granted, I use the corner mailbox exclusively instead of my own because I'm worried someone will steal my mail (thank you very much Jody). I often feel a physical pain as I walk away, my need to check pulling me back to R2D2s blue cousin. But I don't. I never give in. If I can't win at this, what hope is there for me? And the mail always goes down, doesn't it?

So I'm dropping off some movies on my way to work this morning. Videodrome and Dazed and Confused Stoner Edition. And sure enough, when I pull open the door of the mailbox, there, from all our nightmares, is someone's mail. Stuck. Waiting for some miscreant (that would be me), to grab and run.

"What happened to my subscription to TV Guide? I'm sure I sent in the check."

"Why is there an IRS van in front of the house, Daddy?"

"Why won't Brittany call? She knows I love her."

And I do want to grab it. It seems like it is required. Then perhaps take a photo of it in the bottom of a dumpster and mail the photo to the sender. It's only fair that someone else suffer. Now that my near crippling paranoia about mail has received a steroid injection which could keep the entire Yankee's organization in raisin sized balls through their next pennant. This person, so selfish that they couldn't check on their mail, so now my one small grasp on sanity has been snipped away. They too must suffer.

Christ, I need some ludes.