Letters From The Looney Bin (Book 1)

by Thatcher C. Nalley

Like is that doctor banging Millie? Hell, everyone is banging Millie, so that is nothing to know. I wonder what he would know about that freaky guy with no legs who sings that same song over and over – “On top of old soakey”. Moron we all know it’s “On top of ole no-key” or what’s more likely around here - on top of ole Millie.

I miss my goldfish, Andy. He was always there for me. Until he died. He tasted funny going down.

Mother would decorate every nook and cranny of the house in celebration. Even when she had black and blue eyes our house was filled with red and green. Best of all though, about that day of gift opening, was that it was the one and only day our father did not drink.

This has become a chess match with death. Each move I make is crucial. I must make them think they are dominating the board. I play the pawn. However the game cannot last forever.

It was on a Saturday evening, ten years ago, and Father Tom was at the Church’s altar preparing for the next day’s sermon. I walked in through the front double doors and he quickly turned to face me, the altar now behind him. I had worn my uniform special for that day and skipped happily down the aisle. I could feel my brown curls bounce on my white collared blouse. I smiled with my hands behind my back and Father Tom smiled in return. When I got to the edge of the maroon carpet steps I stopped, batted my big brown eyes, then pulled the gun from out behind my back and shot him right in the penis.

When the elements act out of their realm of normal no one calls them insane, they simply call it nature. That is what we are here, to me, the purest form of nature – the cyclone, the tsunami, the hurricane. A beautiful disaster.

Everyone has a piece of insanity within, don’t you agree? The patrons here were just born with a little more “obvious” insanity than the rest of the world. If most people owned up to their own insanity maybe the rest of the world would be diagnosed with sanity and we would lock them up for not fitting into our society.

people do not need voices or hearing to communicate they just need communication tools.

Why do you suppose they feel the need to get something out of me? What does it matter to them? How funny that they have made that so important to them.

That Dr. V is an asshole I tell you. He had me locked up in solitude for a month just because I threw away all the pickles then lit the trash on fire. It took me 6 months to get on kitchen duty to do that. The lettuce and tomatoes weren’t laughing then, they were shaking like a tossed salad.

Who defines normal Dr. Quill? And what makes any human the expert on such things? If we could actually read each others thoughts, we would see how we all have a little Mad Hatter running around in our head.”