Sometimes, when I’m telling a story to a new friend, I realize anew that I’m nuts. I’ll disclose some inane activity in which I participate so habitually that I forget it’s crazy. My desk is strewn with literal scraps of paper where times have been written down, circled and crossed out. This is because I can’t remember how long anything has been on the stove. I’ll use an FPL envelope until there isn’t an inch of space left. I’ll tear that sucker open and write times all over the insides, too. But when I mention that in a conversation about recycling, suddenly I’m the meth cupcake guy in a pot brownie party.