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Twisting all the bad things into good

Mar 26, 2012

CHAPTER 17: THE PATRON SAINT OF . . . WHATEVER. Stroke of Genius (Part 2 of 3)

      


                                    And the white coats just don't get it
                                    I'm a genius with a headache
                                              Senses Fail, Sick or Sane



SATURDAY. 9/11/10



            I had just whacked off in a mental facility.
            (How many people can say that?)
            I was so relieved to go flaccid.
            (Another first)
            At least now, I'll be able to have children if I want.
            But I won't.
            Fuck kids.
            (Not your kids. Your kids are cool)
           

            I felt like celebrating. If I was able to whistle, I would have. None of the other inmates whistled either while I did the jimmy shimmy in my little shorts all the way across the rec room to the tech station. The lack of catcalls allowed me to feel like a man for the first time since my unsettling wardrobe change that felt dangerously close to a sex change.
            Maybe I should spank it again later, just to double check the equipment. Even if it's not tonight, at least I know that the next time won't be an exercise in futility, that is, if I don't relapse on painkillers within an hour of my release.

            The tall blonde tech is sitting behind the counter. Sparky refers to her as "Amazon", usually loud enough for her to hear. She ignores him. Even though I want to laugh, I don't. I hide my smile behind my fist. Besides the Haitian with his wake up calls, I genuinely like all the techs, but Amazon is the only one I would  like to fornicate with. Unfortunately, she is not very friendly. Amazon seems way too uppity to ever play doctor with a mental patient. In her defense, she's never seen me dressed in men's clothes.

            It feels like I'm approaching the only girl at a crowded bar. The one who is drinking alone and wants to be left that way. When she sees me walking up to her, I smile and turn on the Jimmy Mac charm that I haven't had since around 2006.       
           "Hey. How's it going?"
            Her silence indicates that she isn't in the mood to talk to some guy who thinks he's got it together, but doesn't realize or just won't admit how fucked up he really is.
            I lean on the bar and start the sweet talk.
           "Can you do me a big favor?"
            She reacts as if I asked her to meet me in the bathroom.
           "Can you change one of my meds for me?"
           "I can't. You need to discuss that with your doctor."
           "Alright, then."
             I wait for a response but never receive one. 
            "Sooo, can I talk to a doctor then?"
            "The doctors aren't here on the weekends. You'll have to wait until Monday."
            "Honestly, I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass. Everyone here has been awesome, so I'm the last one who would ever give you guys a problem. Seriously."
            I lean closer to tell her a secret.
           "I know that working in this place, you must deal with crazy people doing and saying crazy shit all the time, but I'm not one of 'em. I'm only in here because of drugs. Mostly."
            I got no game. Still, I play on.
           "I'm not asking you to actually switch  my meds, I just don't think I should take the one anymore."
            She looks at her clipboard.
           "Which medication?"
           "The Trazodone. They should call it Trazodon't."
             I Trazodon't think this one's coming home with me.
            "Side effects?" she asks.
            "Yeah."
            "Sometimes it takes your body a few days to get used to it, and then any side effects will usually subside."
            "Well, when I got here, the girl who admitted me mentioned it as a possible side effect, but then someone else said it's actually an adverse reaction."
            "What kind of reaction?"
            "Adverse."
            "Yes, but what kind of adverse reaction?"
            "Oh."
             Like my prolonged erection, this is a lot harder than I thought it would be.
           "Hold on one second" I tell her. "I'll be right back."

            Monica's sitting at the table. I walk over and kneel down next to her. I get as close as possible without risking being told to keep my distance from a fellow prisoner.
           "Hey, Monica. What did you say that was called when you can't get it up?"
            She's puzzled.
           "I meant, what's it called when a guy can't get it down? Something with a "P"?"
           "Oh, priapism. Why?"
           "I'm trying to explain why I want to change meds."
           "I don't think it's that common."
           "Yeah, but still. Just to be safe."

            I return to the Amazon.
           "Hey, sorry. It's called "pria...pria". Shit, I already forgot. Pria something."
           "What are you talking about, James?"
            I have nothing to lose. Well, besides the ability to never have crazy kids or crazy sex again.
            I won't be having either with this tech, so, what the hell?
           "I don't mean to be crude, but I woke up at like 5 in the morning with an erection that didn't go away until about five minutes ago."
            She doesn't look turned on. Instead, she looks at the clock and then back at me.
            I nod my head. "Yeah. Ridiculous, huh?"
           "I'll let the nurse know."
           "Hey, just let everyone know, it's cool. I'm just kidding. Thank you. I really didn't feel like doing that thing where I pretend to swallow a pill, but I really hide it under my tongue or something."
          She must not have seen that movie.
         "Well, I guess if I was going to do that, I would have just given myself away."
           I laugh. She doesn't. That was like strike 12.
          "I'm gonna shut up now."
           After knocking twice on the counter, I give one last smile and nod, then turn to join the other fuck ups who don't think they're fucked up.

           It's hard to take part in the drug related conversation going on at the table. I don't know why, but I am so amused that I rubbed one out it in a mental joint. As open as we are about our drug abuse, our meds, and their mental problems, and even though Monica mentioned something that appalled even me called 2 Girls 1 Cup, I still didn't feel that it would be an appropriate conversation topic to share with anyone who wasn't...myself, I guess.
         
           I told myself  that this is the kind of thing you don't talk about at parties. Then I thought about how Things I Don't Talk About At Parties would be a good title for the kind of book that I would never have the balls to write.
           What would people think?
           Probably that I'm pretty sick.
           Whatever.
           They do it too.
           Maybe just not in a Crisis Stabilization Unit.          

           Besides being a complete degenerate, something caught my eye that made me start wondering if I may also be some kind of genius.
        

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