From a self-diagnosed crazy family—cropped up on the 31st floor of an apartment building filled with aging artists—nights passed hearing the piano player next door teaching someone how to sing an unrecognizable song, the elevator rides filled with women who sing opera even when they speak, comes the life of a chapstick—or no, a Capstick—often mistaken as chapstick followed by the knowing chuckle of someone pushing buttons. Welcome to my public writing exercise—a way to keep track of the crazy.