It didn’t take long for me to realize that my story didn’t belong under the blog title “Me Again, Beasley,” so I’ve moved to this new, more comfortable location.

“Me Again, Beasley” appeared as the subject line in a spam message once, and I always thought it would make a great band name. Given that I will never have a band, I thought it would also make a great blog name.

I was wrong.

In the process of writing one of my usual neurotic emails to a friend, she paid me what I instantly realized was the ultimate compliment for someone like me: “I love your crazy.”

She really does.

And while holding myself to the challenge of writing honestly and from the heart, I have decided that I need to, too.

It’s not such a stretch. I’ve always enjoyed my crazy. I’ve always laughed about it. Telling stories about it keeps me humble and entertained. But it’s not until my friend gave it a big, wet kiss that I realized that, more than almost anything else about me, I love my crazy the most.

The only part I love more is its diligent guardian angel — the one that swoops in to clean up the messes my crazy makes when it knocks things over, obsesses about something silly, or says something in public that would have been best not to mention.

This newly-named blog will be told from the point of view of this angel, who realizes it would not be nearly as wise, insightful, or compassionate if not for the thing we both look after as we would a small, adorable child: my crazy.