A Note from the IdiotBefore you begin, let me confess something: I am an idiot. Not the kind that forgets where the keys are (though I do that too, usually finding them in the freezer), but the kind that questions why doors were ever invented - and why we willingly lock ourselves behind them. I am the sort who takes life apart like a clock, only to discover that the ticking cannot be explained, only felt. I'm the person who brings a fork to a soup fight, not out of error, but to see what happens. I stumble. I trip. I fall headfirst into pits of my own making. And when I hit the bottom, I do not weep - I laugh, because sometimes the fall is funnier than the climb. People point and whisper, 'There goes the fool.' But I have come to suspect that what they call foolishness is simply honesty stripped of its disguise. An idiot is not someone without sense, but perhaps someone cursed - or blessed - with too much of it, in a world that has agreed to live on nonsense. We build our lives on straight lines and right angles, while the universe giggles in curves and chaos. I just choose to giggle with it. So here is my book. My confession. My comedy. My tragedy. A crooked mirror I hold up to myself, and therefore to you. It's a collection of thoughts from a mind that zigs when everyone else zags, a heart that beats in off-key rhythms, and a soul that still believes in jumping in puddles, even in brand-new shoes.