inanity, they managed to work in all sorts of invasive questions: if I heard voices, and if yes, if those voices ever told me to burn things; if I ever wanted to kill myself; if I had any STDs; if I was happy with my penis; if I masturbated regularly; if I was ever touched inappropriately by an adult.
Besides the medication, they recommended I try creative writing—they thought it would be some kind of therapy shit. I tried. This is what I came up with:
Mr. Rammm
I'm never going to amount to anything. I'm a dabbler; jack of all trades, master of none. I live in a subsidized one-bedroom apartment, where I usually drink my dinner. I smoke American Spirits and drive around for no reason. I start a new hobby, then walk away once I've invested just enough time and money to make it interesting. I had a job, but I quit that, too. It was an easy gig down at the museum, handing out pamphlets and making sure no piss-ant kids snuck out with anything valuable. I didn't really care if they did. I once saw a boy—couldn't have been more than thirteen—walk out of the gift shop with a whole sack of shit he didn't pay for. Must have been a hundred dollars’ worth. He walked by me and looked me in the eye the whole time, as if he was legit as shit. I think he even spoke to me. I didn't give a fuck. I just sat there and watched him break for the door like he was goddam clever. What a dumb fuck. He'll probably get caught the next time he tries something like that in front of someone who actually gives a shit whether or not the sun will come up tomorrow; then he'll spend the next five to ten taking it up the ass in some greasy prison shower room. I bet he'll think of me the whole time, and how clever he was. That'll teach him.
I usually sleep in, ‘ cause I'm not really a morning person. I get up around two or three in the afternoon, and have a smoke out on the balcony in my chonies. I decided to stop shaving about three weeks ago. Sometimes I'll shower, but most days I'll just throw on whatever I was wearing the night before and head down to the liquor store. I don't understand why people would drink in a bar. It's so fucking expensive. And loud. Why should I have to pay some jerk-off to make me a shitty, watered down drink while I sit like a real douchebag with some handmade stool rammed up my ass, the kind where you feel like a fucking shrimp because your feet don't quite reach the footrest? So I'm sitting there, five bucks in the hole and I haven't even taken a sip, and some dried out skag in low-rise jeans and a halter top looks at me like "don't you wish you were lucky enough," and I just want to put a goddam bullet in my head. Hers too. By the time I'm trashed out of my mind, I have to sleep in my car ‘ cause I can't even get the key in the goddam ignition, and I've spent the entire paycheck that was supposed to last me until my next job comes around. Fuck that. I'll just settle for a bottle of Log Cabin and a porno, in the comfort of my shitty ass home.
The words flowed effortlessly onto the computer screen, but obviously it didn’t work. I felt just as shitty as when I started, maybe more, now that I have it in writing.
Eventually, I stopped going. Not because I was ashamed or that I felt even crazier while I was on the medication, but because I was fucked . I had already given up, and all I wanted to do was not feel .
9
I tended to camp out at Justin's most nights, slummed on his couch listening to him have reckless and noisy sex with the various girls who came by, usually wasted or pretending to be. I was thankful that he offered a place devoid of judgment. A crash pad. A hide-out.
Eventually, I drowned my sorrows in weed and shrooms, carefully tabulating each self-medicated dose and its effects. I recorded my observations in a journal that I hid among the dust bunnies beneath my bed. I considered myself a lab rat, living for nothing, but curious about everything. Although I looked to be
Besides the medication, they recommended I try creative writing—they thought it would be some kind of therapy shit. I tried. This is what I came up with:
Mr. Rammm
I'm never going to amount to anything. I'm a dabbler; jack of all trades, master of none. I live in a subsidized one-bedroom apartment, where I usually drink my dinner. I smoke American Spirits and drive around for no reason. I start a new hobby, then walk away once I've invested just enough time and money to make it interesting. I had a job, but I quit that, too. It was an easy gig down at the museum, handing out pamphlets and making sure no piss-ant kids snuck out with anything valuable. I didn't really care if they did. I once saw a boy—couldn't have been more than thirteen—walk out of the gift shop with a whole sack of shit he didn't pay for. Must have been a hundred dollars’ worth. He walked by me and looked me in the eye the whole time, as if he was legit as shit. I think he even spoke to me. I didn't give a fuck. I just sat there and watched him break for the door like he was goddam clever. What a dumb fuck. He'll probably get caught the next time he tries something like that in front of someone who actually gives a shit whether or not the sun will come up tomorrow; then he'll spend the next five to ten taking it up the ass in some greasy prison shower room. I bet he'll think of me the whole time, and how clever he was. That'll teach him.
I usually sleep in, ‘ cause I'm not really a morning person. I get up around two or three in the afternoon, and have a smoke out on the balcony in my chonies. I decided to stop shaving about three weeks ago. Sometimes I'll shower, but most days I'll just throw on whatever I was wearing the night before and head down to the liquor store. I don't understand why people would drink in a bar. It's so fucking expensive. And loud. Why should I have to pay some jerk-off to make me a shitty, watered down drink while I sit like a real douchebag with some handmade stool rammed up my ass, the kind where you feel like a fucking shrimp because your feet don't quite reach the footrest? So I'm sitting there, five bucks in the hole and I haven't even taken a sip, and some dried out skag in low-rise jeans and a halter top looks at me like "don't you wish you were lucky enough," and I just want to put a goddam bullet in my head. Hers too. By the time I'm trashed out of my mind, I have to sleep in my car ‘ cause I can't even get the key in the goddam ignition, and I've spent the entire paycheck that was supposed to last me until my next job comes around. Fuck that. I'll just settle for a bottle of Log Cabin and a porno, in the comfort of my shitty ass home.
The words flowed effortlessly onto the computer screen, but obviously it didn’t work. I felt just as shitty as when I started, maybe more, now that I have it in writing.
Eventually, I stopped going. Not because I was ashamed or that I felt even crazier while I was on the medication, but because I was fucked . I had already given up, and all I wanted to do was not feel .
9
I tended to camp out at Justin's most nights, slummed on his couch listening to him have reckless and noisy sex with the various girls who came by, usually wasted or pretending to be. I was thankful that he offered a place devoid of judgment. A crash pad. A hide-out.
Eventually, I drowned my sorrows in weed and shrooms, carefully tabulating each self-medicated dose and its effects. I recorded my observations in a journal that I hid among the dust bunnies beneath my bed. I considered myself a lab rat, living for nothing, but curious about everything. Although I looked to be
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