Free Range Writing:  Mental Instability

The following is a writing exercise.  Start typing without any real subject matter and let the story take it’s own course.  Unfortunately I feel it reveals too much about my inner psyche. 

Don’t you hate it when the multiple voices that rage for control inside your head don’t get along?  Lately two of my primary psychosis didn’t appear to be able to come to terms.  The main problem was that Thor is a paranoid schizophrenic and Sally was a sexually deviant nymphomaniac.  As you can imagine this causes quite the stir when I am off my meds.

Say we are strolling along wearing a tin foil cone hat, which I am often found to do, because it keeps Thor satisfied that the spy satellites can’t read my thoughts, every thing is good since I managed to find a shiny pair of silver pumps to coordinate with it, this ensures Sally is happy, but the garish make up she insisted upon me wearing is definitely drawing strange glances from the local lunch crowd in this busy part of town. 

Wait, I lost my train of thought.  That happens when they start screaming.

Oh yes, strolling down the street in a conical tin foil hat, shiny silver sling-back pumps and bright whore make up.  SO, a seventies model black conversion van slowly rolls by and the normal guy personality in me immediately comments, “Hey, that looks like the A-Team van.” But Thor, in a full paranoid lather starts carrying on about it being a FBI surveillance vehicle, or worse yet, the NSA.  He is pretty sure the van was parked across the street from our house last night as well.  I immediately start some deep breathing exercises that I learned about in nursing school.  I’m hoping they can help keep the voices at bay until I can get my psych meds refilled at the 24 hour Wal Mart pharmacy.  Suddenly Sally is laughing at me and saying the breathing is for bitches in labor, NOT crazy people. 

She was probably right, and it seemed to only add to more people stopping and staring, but offered no control over the voices.  I reapplied my lipstick as Sally proceeded to offer her assessment of the situation at hand.

She seemed to be of the opinion that a seventies era conversion van could only contain one thing, seventies era porn stars.  She was all for going up and knocking on the round side windows and inquiring as to the likely hood of a nice afternoon gang bang, when I tried to remind her, since all gang bang activity would be forced to transpire within or around my bodily orifices, that was not an option.  She made some off-hand comment, “it wouldn’t be the first time..” sort of under her breath, which made me extremely paranoid about the few times I had blacked out during a few of these episodes.  I always assumed the constipation and sore anal region was an unfavorable side effect of some new psych meds, but now I was getting really concerned.

As I attempted to discover some repressed memories I noticed that in my absence of attention, Thor had moved us into a crouching position behind a table of a nearby cafe.  This wouldn’t have been so bad except there were people sitting at the table.  All my hopes of remaining unnoticed were quickly dashed when I remembered I was wearing a conical tin foil hat and whore make-up.  The shiny, sling back pumps would have been another give away, but I don’t think they could see them since when I squat down my bath robe tends to cover my feet.  They were surprisingly calm about the whole ordeal and just looked confused.  I was trying to keep the peace within my brain while Thor wanted to keep a close eye on the woman, out of fear she was going to signal the conversion van, but Sally kept winking at the man.  I’m pretty sure I must have looked like a crossed eyed lunatic with a nervous twitch. 

The restaurant manager came out and forcefully moved us away from his establishment.  He was saying something about molesting a young bus boy a few months ago, but I don’t have any recall of that.  Sally wouldn’t go into any details and Thor kept rambling about illegal aliens and NAFTA, so I made a run for the pharmacy.

Thor really sucks as a paranoid schizophrenic.  As he was busy watching the seventies model black conversion van, which after parking, appeared to only contain one child molester looking gentleman, which we are all in agreement is intolerable, he failed to notice the two police cars that had parked behind us and the four wary police officers who now encircled us. 

I tried to act nonchalant, but as I stood up my robe got caught on the buckle of my shiny, silver sling back pump and was pulled open.  In my haste to get to the pharmacy that morning I had neglected to put on under garments.  I had been under the assumption that to remember the robe was a pretty good sign, but the police were of a differing opinion.  The started getting all grabby and handcuff friendly, saying things like, “indecent exposure” and “disturbing the peace”, when Thor kicked into over drive and started swinging wildly accusing them of working for the CIA.  Sally was not to be out done so she took this opportunity to fondle a few of the police officers in spots deemed wholly unacceptable in polite society.  This seemed to piss many of them off more than the wild punches being thrown by Thor. 

For the record:  Tasers are cruel and should not be permitted such flippant use.

I think they shocked me more times than necessary, but it actually seemed to do some good.  Apparently the unintended side effect from getting 50,000 volts of electricity coursing through your body is a sort of impromptu Electro Convulsive Therapy.  You know, when they shock your brain to fix the mental problems plaguing you.  It was popular in the seventies, but fell out of favor only to start a come back.  I have always been against it, but it appears to work.  I have been locked away in the proverbial nut house for several days now, and haven’t heard a single word from Thor or Sally.  I think I might just quit the meds all together and keep on the shock therapy. 

One of those cops keeps coming by to visit.  I’m not sure if he is angry I punched him as Thor, or turned on because I fondled him as Sally, either way I think I’m screwed.

This is more of my kind of writing exercise.  No rules, no purpose, no structure.  Feel free to try it, leave me a link in comments to see how you do.

•   Comments(9)    Posted by killer on 03/17 at 11:02 PM
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