Ordinary Joe. That's me. Except it's not, not really. The cries of those who have died echo constantly in my head. That's why I'm in the asylum - for the drugs, to help me forget, to help it stop.
It's a pity it doesn't work.
This blog is my diary, after a fashion. My own personal therapy. Views, 'insights' and stories about those I meet and my experiences in the asylum.
Well, I dislike them, at least. I always feel as if I'm under the spotlight and picture myself restrained, with someone pulling a cover off a row of gleaming torture instruments.
Why are torture instruments - scalpels and clamps and the like - always so clean in films? Are they not wanting you to get a nasty infection whilst pulling your fingernails off or removing your thumb from the knuckle down?
Ain't that sweet of them?
Interviews. I don't like them. I remember one I had. I forget what the job was actually for, but there were three people facing me. It was early days in my jobbing career. Probably only my second or third interview. There was a window behind them, with horizontal blinds left open. The sun was shining in the window and the blinds, as I moved my head, kept causing me to be temporarily blinded and left in darkness as my eyes struggled to keep up with the sun dipping in and out. I could have kept my head perfectly still, but didn't want to appear stiff and uncomfortable.
Instead I appeared, probably, as if I wasn't in control of my eyes or I had a weird nervous tic. Needless to say I didn't get the job.
When Connors interviewed me prior to entry into the asylum, it was more informal. He acted as a friend. He smiled and offered me tea and biscuits. His voice was soothing.
So, rather than an out and out predator, lunching on my discomfort, Connors was prowling. Circling. Choosing the best time to pounce.
Letting me walk into his trap.
Only right, therefore, that I choose to give others some of this medicine. OK, so it's not Risperdal or even Paracetomol, and it may well not (read 'won't') make you feel better, but hey, I'll enjoy it, and that's what matters.
Of course, here in the asylum, it's difficult to interview anyone other than the other residents. Granted, in a good few cases, that'd be quite fun, and I may well do that, methinks, but how about others? How about you?
I can't do that in here. I can't even do that on this blog. As much as I feel I'm sneaking about writing this diary, I wouldn't be surprised if they (or 'THEY') knew about it - although talking about it now sort of negates any secrecy, doesn't it? Hey, I'm in an asylum. I'm meant to be crazy, though we - you and I - know the truth about that, don't we?
Anywho. I've managed to do one. An interview. Shhh, don't tell anyone, OK? I managed to ask the lovely Jan Ruth a few questions, just off the top of my head. Of course, as I'm unable to put anything like that on here for fear of reprisal or victimisation (not just of me), I had to find somewhere else. It was easier than I thought. I simply hijacked another blog.
If you fancy a few words with a (supposed!) lunatic yourself, chuck me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org and I'll try and let you sneak in too. Don't blame me if, once you're in here, you can't get out, however. Them's the risks.
It feels a bit dangerous, you know. I can feel the adrenaline prickling through my veins. I'm being naughty!