So, you plot thirsty asshole, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, I don’t give a shit about this internal experience stuff. This modern mental babble. That’s highchair stuff. You’re thinking, that’s not a story. You want action, a plot, real trouble, some kind of espionage bullshit. World politics, crime, high finance. What the fuck does all this have to do with anything? This is what you’re thinking. Experience. Experience. I’m saying this with a whiny nasal twang, by the way. My tone is childish here – really obnoxious. Ha! Fuck it. Fuck plot. Fuck experience. Fuck dots. Fuck you. You want a story like that? Go rob a bank. Go cut a deal somewhere, find a villain, score some crack, meet some mean motherfucker with a gun. Let some decrepit looking homeless person hold out a cup, watch you walk by without giving him anything, and then jump up like a wild bangee, screaming your name, attack you from behind. That’ll get you all the goddamn action you want. This is my experience, no more, no less. It is is is is is IS! Got it?

Fuck no. You don’t get shit.

You’re thinking, hey, if this is supposed to be about mental illness, then at least give me a mental hospital. Lemme have a room full of crazies – some weird shit, nut cases. Let ’em do some funny shit, let ’em get violent, then sweet. Let ’em talk nonsense, then all of a sudden get profound, unlock the basic truths of life while they loose their tempers, get cuffed, wrapped up, locked up, spit out the crux of society’s ills, it’s solutions. Let ’em play cards, basketball, get to be goooooood friends.

Hey, you think mentally ill people live in mental hospitals? The hell they do! Man, they sit beside you in church. They walk into the shop at closing time and buy something, chat for awhile. Man, they wait for you to finish using the bathroom, so they can use it too. They wait on you when you have lunch, ask if you want more coffee. They give you a ring on the phone, talk to you for awhile while you don’t even goddamn listen. They teach your step classes, talk to you in line while you wait to pay for your groceries. They do telemarketing, call you up at home, ask you to contribute to the new animal shelter. They pull up next to you at the traffic light. And that’s only half of it. They fuck you in the night in your dreams, or not in your dreams. You fuck them when you get yourself off, think about those hot looking chicks you’ve gotten to know. Or the real thing, lying beside you in your real bed. Only half of it, buddyroe – only half of it.

So good ol’ Glenn loans me money for a train that’ll get me home in one straight shot. Leaves in the afternoon, arrives in the hometown at two a.m. Perfect time to get there. Don’t have to see anybody or talk to anybody. I walk to my apartment. No big deal. Through the downtown, a few more blocks here, a few blocks there. In Europe, people walk further than this for a loaf of bread.

I take my medicine. Why? Because now I’m fucked up. The party’s over.

I know. You never thought this would happen. You thought I was a very recalcitrant patient. You thought I was going to end up somewhere where they had to grab my ass and give me a shot, start shoving pills down my throat. Sorry to disappoint you, folks, but I’m really not that bad off. I knew I was manic, and I knew now I was depressed. I had some fun and now my blood level was fucked – you know it, I know it, Gracie knew it. Gracie. That’s where I belonged. With her and The Wimp. Somebody to tell me to take my medicine with every meal. They can talk to each other about me. Have secret conversations in the next room. “Did he take his pill?” “Don’t let him wander off.” That would be the ideal, wouldn’t it?

I would have gone straight there, but it was out of the way of my medicine cabinet. And, I couldn’t talk, words wouldn’t fly – not worth the effort. And why let them see me this way? Nothing good could come out of that. I needed a little convalescence time, on my own – me, my chemicals, my blood and my brain.

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