Every day since we've met, without fail, traci turns to me and says, "What's wrong with you?" Sometimes, it's because I'm running around Lowes with PVC hanging out of my pants. Sometimes, it's because I'm making monkey noises and picking bugs out of other spectators' hair at my kids' band recital. Sometimes, it's because I'm arguing with Sam for the third straight hour about Sudoku strategies. So after six-and-a-half years of "What's wrong with you?" I've decided to take stock, to evaluate, to try to get at the roots of what's wrong with me. I am, therefore, making a list of potential "issues" I might have.
What's wrong with me?
Well, for instance, this is my chiropractor:
This is a picture of me and him standing in the parking lot in front of his office, waiting for my appointment. The caption for the photo:
Jackson: "I don't know, Dr. Stick, I'd a guessed you'd need more brains to become a doctor."
Dr. Stick: "That's where you're wrong. Good doctoring comes from in here."
Jackson: "Inside your t-shirt?"
Dr. Stick: "Yes. Inside your t-shirt."