Truth isn't truth

Late last night Brittany and I were walking the dog. She pointed at what seemed to be a weird looking rock and said, 

"Is that a lobster?"

It looked to me like a weird looking rock, so I said, "no I think it's a rock."

Neither of us were certain. It had been raining, so I kicked some rain water at it. It did not move. I kicked more rain water at it. A couple of its legs moved on one side. 

It was a crayfish. I get creeped out by things that don't look human so I shuddered and turned away.

Brittany said, "there's another one,"  and gestured at a much less dead rock/crayfish scrabbing across the parking lot. The dog barked—there were more of them—maybe five to ten total. Brittany remarked that she'd lived in her apartment for a year and this was the first time she had seen crayfish scrabbing across the parking lot. "Do they live in the lake?"

This morning we walked back to where we saw them and found a lone, detached claw. Brittany said, "now we know they were real."

One of the cool things about "Sharp Objects" is that Camille Preaker is an unreliable narrator. Her memories/alcoholic trauma hallucinations co-exist with the real world, and this is one of my most/least favorite things about living with mental health problems: no matter how strongly I think I know a thing there's a part of me that goes, "yeah, but are you sure?"

So in some ways it's comforting that we're all, collectively, questioning the nature of reality now. Those were both rocks and lobsters. Scrabbing is a real word. I cannot wait for the uncontrollable laughing.