**Warning: If you have never seen Breaking Bad and you intend watch it at a later date, you may want to skip this entry.**
I told my husband that if he had terminal cancer and I found out he had been making meth in order to pay for treatment and also to ensure that I was not left penniless after he was gone, that I would not mind.
This was during an episode of Breaking Bad, when Skyler finally figures out Walt has been making meth, but the difference between me and Skyler is that Skyler was pissed off. She filed for divorce.
I am not sure if me not minding that my terminally ill husband is making meth makes me a bad person. My husband's response was: You have no moral compass.
Just because I also have a bank-robbing fantasy. That I would never actually go through with. But it's a fantasy nonetheless. I don't know why. I was not raised by criminals. Maybe it was all the crime novels.
My husband, on the other hand, won't even park in restricted parking for five minutes. He tells me that some day I'm going to get towed and then, THEN!, who'll be laughing? He will.
When he told me -- perhaps jokingly -- that I have no moral compass, I worried for a millisecond that I might be a sociopath. Or a psychopath. I am not sure what the difference is between sociopaths and psychopaths, but I read this novel once called Devil in the White City. It's a true story about a serial killer who killed tons of people during the Chicago World's Fair in the late 1800s. That guy was a psychopath. He was a pathological liar and was unable to empathize with other humans. He did very disturbing things with the bodies of the people he killed.
So, I'm looking at my husband and the hairs on his arm that are turning blond from the sun, the hairs that I like to pet like they're a little animal, and my heart melts a little for him, and I decide that because of my love for him, I am not a psychopath.
I weep while reading mommy blogs. I am not a psychopath.
I just like to live dangerously. In my head.