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2006-02-03 - 9:24 a.m. laughter at the madhouse sometimes, after skipping a shower, I wonder why we call it soap... I mean, why not bubbles or squishy... this entry is not meant to be about the soap, bar, liquid, or story (don't get yourself all into a lather just yet), so visit the soap to find out what's bubbling up in the shower this week... this entry is an extension course in madness given by my friend and former collegue, Dr. Frudo Wackinoff (personal physician to the late, great, President Hackabush, once removed from the Court of Tennis for making too much love... the reception will be in the garden outside of the conservatory where cruel and unusual refreshments will be served, forceably, after all the hopefully children are bound and gagged for their own protection... we do not need visuals... unless, of course, you are neatly shaved... bring up the rear (without titilation or exhaust), you are directed to replay all of your favorite cartoons in your mind right now, especially those that have eyes bugging out of their heads and reasonable fascimilies of your childhood imprinted on their celluloid (and if all of your memories are digital, please show your ID at the door)... and now that we are suitably confused (or at least distracted) and we've simultaneously posed and ignored the question, why would a fat person without any grace of movement working night shift in a psych hospital wear loud hard wooden heels knowing their primary job task is to make rounds, walk a hard tile hallway, taking at least one wakeful step into every bedroom at least four times an hour?, it is time to get on with this entry in progress which is, perhaps, the second entry uploaded on this day even as the dates suggest otherwise (shhhsh)... it may be the first of the two, forever lost in the shadow of the present, too soon passed into the past, but that is what builds archives and it is to that end we continue whether we know it or mean to or not... posterity, you know, gets it all in the end... bringing up the rear and all... I once learned the secrets of Blogmad, but then I forgot so now I simply act like I know and that seems to be cool enough for mixed company... if you see the secrets to the universe and everything including life, love, and the recipe for a really good fondu in the previous statement, congratulations, you've been selected for the next spaceship leaving for the Alpha-Omega galazy... your boarding pass will be mailed to you under the name Smith... just attach a recent 3/2 photo of yourself in the space provided and sign at the bottom for future verification (otherwise you might slip into the past and be lost or forgotten)... if you happen to be Jonesing for visual stimuli or you didn't get your invitation, express your desire at the window marked Express Your Desire Here and discuss music or your favorite art with Kaye for no apparent reason other than the random learning experience you shall share... just show your card to the librarian at the help desk and please remember not to play in traffic, especially not in New Orleans... so I am hop skip and jumping around now like a Mexican jumping bean (is that a racist reference?... I mean, don't other cultures have jumping beans?... no offense to Mexicans anywhere, especially not to Salma Hayek, or Linda Ronstadt, for that matter... anyway, back to where I was jumping to) and suddenly I am freakin amused, ok?... I am a sucker for Adam Sandler songs... and whether she is or she isn't, even after all these years, she's still not just any angel, you know?... just as suddenly (maybe even moreso), I don't want to fight this feeling anymore (I've forgotten what I started fighting for)... but about all the blithering I've done in the name of freedom expression, well, someone has to represent, after all... they know where you've been, whoemever they might be... way back I was enjoying something and saved the link even though I lost the explanation of what I was enjoying and so I just enjoyed the conversation I was not really in, but just today I fell in love... when I die, you may bury me in a Cadbury Egg... it's not as if we can bring me back (unless there's a lot I don't know and I accept that whole heartedly and am quite ready for anything, but as far as I know I don't know how to come back at the moment, or bring back President Hackabush, for that matter (what matter?)... any matter, for that matter, and reasonable people might accept the world as it is and believe that it was once perfect and will be again, but here in the madhouse we don't go in for that sort of fluff... heaven can wait for those who live in hell and poor souls that we are, do not have the bus fare to salvation... it is five thirty six am and two staff are talking and laughing as if it midday and the kids, restless and haunted, are told to shut up (in less friendly language) as if they are deliberately waking up from bad dreams just to disturb the loud and laughing staff... at least they could let me sleep until they bang on my door and tell me to "get up and wash your ass, your coochie stink."... we do not need visuals... unless, of course, you are closely cropped... I think that when I leave this place I will write letters to the administration about my stay here, about how oppressing and intimidating staff would be when I was at my most vulnerable, about how unsympathetic and cruel staff were when I tried to open up, about how staff seemed to take my illness personally and continue to cycle of abuse as if they were my abuser, and about how they would blame me for what happened to me... in order to embrace my inner laughter and find that happy place from which all hope and love springs forth, I shall render the rest of this entry to the rest of this entry, in fact, I decided to . o O ( to protect the alphabet ) O o . "If you've heard this story before, don't stop me, because I'd like to hear it again." and once I learned the secrets of the madhouse I knew it was time to leave... so I stayed...
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