There are times when I go almost crazy. It happens once a month, consistently, without fail. This is when my face could deep-fry chicken. This is when I feel like a penguin walking on ice.

Weeks ago, I tried to rationalize my emotions. Sadly, I cannot come up with any mindblowing existentialist justification. So I turn to biology.

Just this week over dinner, I tried to rationalize again. Aided by a friend this time. We talked about religion, palm-reading, and skydiving. But mostly we talked about men. And why men do what they do.

We eventually got tired of talking about men so we decided to take a walk and find a toilet. We surmised that men are the way they are because perfection is boring. And that achieving the ideal would kill the motivation to live.

We never talked about men after that. Until the next bout of crazy, of course.