Brenda got to the point where she was insane every week, for one day. I must be a serious case, Brenda thought, insane every week! Then she tried to reassure herself. A week has seven days. She was only crazy for one. Not so bad was it? Lots of people were crazy more often than that. Most of them still held down jobs. Many of those jobs were in Congress.
No, Brenda! she reprimanded herself. This is the slippery slope! To say that one is all right. One whole day. Soon: one whole bottle, one whole cheesecake, one whole body massage, with hot scented oil.
Her judgment was not to be trusted. For -- this might be the day. The one mad day. It did have a way of coming around. Every time she looked for it, there it was.
Sanity, what was it? Simple: sanity was doing the next thing on the list. And sanity, the list, was not as safe as it ought to be. The list was spooky and tall, teetering like those anthills she saw in nature programs about Africa. She had to be careful. She had to be exceedingly precise. One wrong move, one bump -- ants came pouring out, horrible voracious woman-eating ants, swarmed in an instant over her body. Biting and opinionated ants: it's time you heard the truth about yourself.
Brenda was amazed that for so long she'd had no idea hard liquor was marketed, specially for ladies, in playful little bottles with cartoons on them. Bottles which looked like bubble bath for children -- and were 80 proof. No more tears!
One day in seven: she never saw it coming until she was over her head in it.
The next thing on the list: Brenda sat silent and upright. She held the little bottle with the bunny painted on it. She waited for the train to come at her through the wall.
I mustn't scream, Brenda thought, or the neighbors will wonder. Or I will scream. What the hell -- it's my day.