People are always surprised when I tell them I have schizophrenia. They even go as far as to argue with me as if my doctors have no idea what they’re talking about. “You can’t possibly have schizophrenia,” they say. “I know schizophrenics; you’re nothing like them.”
I look out at the water crushing its own dreams. It’s dark. The lights along the pier are not bright enough to illuminate its pollution-ridden surface and the full moon is hiding somewhere behind the smog. I’m squatting because everything I’m wearing is new, including my shoes.
“Dangggg baby, back at it again with the maroon Vans,” he says.
I laugh. He makes me laugh a lot, and it’s not one of those laughs you push out in your day job to humor someone, while plotting to kill them. You only hear this brand of sound after 5 PM and on weekends.
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