I have an alter-ego. She lives there inside that part of my brain that I don’t really like to look at very much. Bertha is her name and she... scares me.
(I am thrilled to learn that I am not the only one with a split personality. Hillbilly's confession here.)
When things get uncomfortable for the normal me, Bertha comes out in her annoying squeaky voice. If Bertha ever decided to rampage my body I would be one bad ass mother trucker. She’s fat and doesn’t bath and probably lives in her pickup truck on the side of the highway in my skull. And there she'll live, like a parasite...leeching...
And that’s nasty.
I have to admit; most people who see Bertha on a regular basis know her antics well. Those who don’t... well they don’t. And when I try and blame my alter ego.... well, they don’t take too kindly to it. Shifting blame? I am not. I am just telling you about my mental instability.
You see, the brilliant are mental cases. That makes me brilliant. And beautiful. Because Bertha tells me so.
And if no one else will compliment me then Bertha will do it. As much as I hate her treatment of those around me, like that poor girl who used to live in the flat above mine, ehm. Bertha sure is damn nice to me. Its hoes before... everyone else. So maybe I’ll extend her rent a little longer for free. Just tell me I’m pretty again ok? And tell that girl she’s a slutty whore for me too.