At night (and on the way to your house, while I’m talking to you, confiding, joking, driving home) in bed I get a little afraid.

Afraid of being discounted, of being categorized (how teenly angsty of me!), of becoming one-dimensional to you people who know me.

If I act a little rambunctious is it because I’m childish and immature?

If I like to act a little silly, get a little theatrical, am I whack or just wacky? ADHD or just a little bored? Am I the crazy uncle or the fun uncle? Shallow or funny? Creative or crazy? Energetic or spastic? Am I a “rebel” or an “individual”? Suspect notions, both…

If I give myself a mohawk—as I did yesterday, shaving the sides down to the nubbins and leaving the top long and askew—is it to be read as a response to my 36th birthday? Not acting my age? A so-called mid-life crisis? Is it acceptable that I still like Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch and listening to The Circle Jerks? Am I merely a product of my punk rock generation? Am I stuck? Am I too trendy retro-cool?

If I do something stupid, get confused, or forget a name or date, or what I did after lunch the day before, is it because I fried my brain with drugs? Killed too many brain cells? Knocked myself out-of-whack? Screwed up my neurochemistry? Was excessive drug use the natural outcome of my listening to loud music in my formative years?

Am I damaged or just aging?

Do I need therapy or just a little patience? Or compassion, an open-mind, a little allowance?

Will it make more sense to people to attribute my idiosyncrasies to being a druggie or being a human?

What makes sense to me?