Michael Kindt's Blog, page 71

There's another guy here named Mike and we made friends.

He’s 41, so about my age, and also he’s bald, too.

Shaving one’s head is kind of a big to-do here. No razors, so you gotta buzz it down and it takes forever. I’ve actually been thinking of growing hair, something I haven’t had since like ‘95.

Most guys shave their face and let their hair grow. Haha. Not me, I’m a rebel. I do the exact opposite.

So this guy Mike and me are friends. He has trouble with boundaries, as in, he keeps grabbing vaginas and boobs.

This is frowned upon in polite society.

I mean who wants to be at Wal-Mart looking for a worthless, unneeded piece of plastic bullshit when some bald guy comes up and grabs your tit?

No one.

Mike swears he can’t help himself. He’s just really really really REALLY horny all the time. When he’s at home, all he does is jack off to internet porn. “Constantly,” he says. “Until I need aloe on my dick.”

His right bicep is twice as big as his left bicep. The man is committed.

I made friends with him because at least he is coherent and can talk about something other than himself. Most crazy or mentally ill people, I am learning, exist in a Universe which contains only one object: ME ME ME. Mike’s Universe is filled with titties and snatches.

For some reason, I respect that more. God, the WHINING, is probably why. Mike doesn’t whine.

As I have gotten to know him, I am quite certain he should never be let go. He’s already a registered sex offender and it’s clearly only going to get worse. How he ended up in this facility is a joke: funding. The other places were full. The state didn’t have enough money. Yadda yadda yadda. He is one of the handful here who are not voluntary. He has no outside privileges, but believe me, getting out of here would be, like, a three minute job.

Anyway, that’s a America in the early 21st Century. Yee haw

So I haven't written in a day or so because I still have to make a living, even in a mental hospital.

Being crazy ain’t cheap, lemme tell you. Holy shit.

My internet time has been gobbled up doing due dilligence on investments. There’s a ton of research involved, financials to be gone over, conference calls to be doubted, trades to be made.

Also, apparently, I am going to have to file taxes from here and I’m not sure how exactly I will do that on a public computer. I’m NOT going to do it on a public computer, come to think of it. At all. I mean, on this one, the keys are still sticky from the dude who ate waffles with his hands.

I sure could use a drink. Man, I miss drinking. I haven’t had a drink in, what? A long ass time. Previously, when I did financial shit, I would have a drink or nine. I now see why.

In other news, people rotate in and rotate out, crazy as shit. People who secretly want to fuck children or dogs. People too scared to go outside. People who cry all the time and want to kill themselves.

I’m starting to suspect they think I’m a spy, but they won’t kick me out. Oh, no. Not at 200 bucks a day.

ka-CHING!

The Facility

that is what several people have referred to these writings as. Who am I to argue.? Thus, a title is born.

The darkness isn’t always so dark here. Sometimes Cheers is on the tv and I laugh and laugh at Shelley Long. Lucy is the grand dame of female comedians, but Shelley Long as Diane Chambers is one of the most brilliant comedic performances by anyone, male or female, in the entire history of the performing arts. I don’t know Cheers history but she should’ve received a truckload of Emmys. They should’ve backed up to her house and dumped them in her yard. Fuckin’ A.

I remember Mom watching Cheers, but I was so young it didn’t interest me. Now, I am fascinated, but mostly with Diane Chambers.

It’s a testament to the strength of the ensemble and the writing and Kirstie Alley that the show did so well after she left.

Shelley Long as Diane Chambers, tho. Wow.

The drugs really do weaken you.

You have a personality and a self when you come in here but it gets slowly erased. It’s all I can do to keep a handle on things and write, as ME, you know?

Don, from previously, and his talk of feeling dead inside is starting to hit home. I think I felt drunk because the drugs we unique, novel. Now, I too am feeling dead inside.

I used to be angrier. I gave more of a shit. Now I’m meh.

When I do write, it’s at the end of a cycle, before I get my next pills. Pretty much everything you’re reading now is Q’d.

I honestly think that at some point, these drugs or similar will be required for society as a whole. They will be in the water supply or food or whatever. It’s no accident that, in 2016, everyone just about is mentally ill and “needs” drugs.

I came in here thinking I was crazy, but it ain’t just me. It’s the whole goddamn world.

There's a guy, Eric, here who's confused about his sexuality.

He would rather dress as a woman but here in the mental health care FACILITY, the options are limited. We are not exactly a hotbed of fashion.

Back home, he has wigs, dresses.

You don’t ask why a person is in here. Information may be given, but is never requested. If someone asks you a direct personal question, you either answer it immediately or stare at them angrily until an orderly comes over.

I’m getting close with the orderlies. Kyle is my favorite.

The less you talk, I’m finding, the more people want to talk to you. That’s how I know all this shit about Eric. He told me flat out. I’m like, “So are you gay or…”

“No,” he said. “I’m attracted to women. I just want to be one. There’s no room for me, a guy who likes women but wants to be one, too.”

“What about that guy Bruce Wayne? He was all up in the media recently. He dresses like a woman.”

“Bruce Wayne? You mean Superman?”

“Maybe.”

We looked at each other, knowing instinctively we had it wrong somehow.

There are two kinds of people in here: those I have met and talked to and those I haven’t.

I prefer those I have met and talked to.

I finally witnessed a Restraint

It wasn’t me, but a guy who went off about the tv channel.

A Restraint is where they just sort of hug you until you calm down. Five big burly dudes hugging you all at once.

Relax, man.

Eventually he calmed down, ate some more blue pills, and accepted the fact that CSI: Duluth was on the tv.

I can’t tell you all the contention this stupid tv causes. Oh, but getting rid of it? Unconscionable!

How stupid is this world?

Filter - Hey man, nice shot.

Filter - Hey man, nice shot.

2.9.16 11:11

2.9.16 11:11:

“I’ve always believed it to be ballsy to spit in the face of your god – even if you don’t believe in it anymore.“

====================

Dennis Dubay, ladies and gentleman.

I myself find it weird that people want to be writers. None of the good ones were adored but hated, or, even worse, ignored. Why are you here, writers?

Everybody knows Danielle Steele. Clom Tancy. Kephen Sting. Gron Jisham. blah blah blah.

If you are in writing for the money…..good fucking luck.

Fuck your audience. Write like you have to, like you have to cum or shit or piss. Writing isn’t a choice or a “career”. It’s desperation, if you do it right. If you do it wrong, it’s as lame as anything on tv.

Colbert, or some such shit.

I have no advice about writing, except to do it, to throw away any mental guards, and to, especially, ignore or even discount your audience.

This is what i do and there are like 15 or 20 people who read me regularly on the internet!

Woohoo.

The problem with Clinton’s campaign is that she sucks.

She’s an old school, ass-kissing, position-changing establishment politician.

It’s just not their year, whether on the Democrat side or the Republican side.

I find it heartening that so many people on both sides of the aisle are saying, “Enough with the bullshit.”

The best moving box, for that final relocation, is a glossy cherrywood casket.

The End is really the final, ultimate move, don’t you think?

“So where are you moving to?”

“Six feet under.”

“Oh, yeah? Did you get transferred?”

“You might say. Instead of sales, I will be moldering among the worms.”

“Gee, I hope the money’s good.”

“Me, too, man. Me, too.”

I don’t get why they dress you up when you die. My aunt was in a gorgeous gown. If you’re a man, they stick you in a suit just like every other man, living or dead.

This is death, not the prom.

I wanna be in my 20 year old, thin, threadbare terribly comfy Bob’s Trucking t-shirt, along with my ancient red flannel pajama bottoms. I’m going to be ‘laid to rest’, after all. That is how I laid myself to rest most nights–unless I had female companionship. In those rare cases, I only wore a thick coating of baby oil and a leer.

I do want a massive tomb, however. Something on a nearly Egyptian scale. And solar powered, because if there’s one thing I care about as a person, living or dead, it’s the issues.

On this massive tomb, I want a big red button that says PRESS. When my mourning faithful do indeed press it, I want “Jesus Built My Hotrod” by Ministry to begin blasting from hidden speakers. Why? Because soon I discovered that this rock thing was true. Jerry Lee Lewis was the devil. Jesus was an architect previous to his career as a prophet. All of a sudden, I found myself in love with the world, so there is only one thing I could do: DING A DING DANG MY DANG A LONG LING LONG!