Clearly, being almost-30 has not yet turned me into a grown-up.

Because a grown-up would not be sitting in the courtroom of the state mental hospital, about to testify about involuntarily committing someone to inpatient psychiatric care, gazing about the room, and giggling internally because there is a poster on the wall with a lovely landscape and the name of the artist underneath in big letters: JOHN HENRY TWACHTMAN.

I understand, it's not actually a naughty name. But it's a little too close to be so prominently displayed in a mental hospital, methinks.

I didn't actually laugh out loud, which is good. We do what we can to differentiate ourselves so that we don't end up being carted back to the wards along with the patients, you know? When I worked at psych hospitals, in New York and later in Massachusetts, I consistently thought that the only real way to tell the difference between the staff and the patients was the presence or absence of keys. And when you're just there to testify in a hearing, they don't give you keys.