The First Time I Smoked Cat Shit

It was an abnormally hot day in mid-August, and I was carpet surfing for bits of herbal incense and marijuana. I was irritated and depressed because I didn’t have anything to smoke. I was having some success in my search naiveté for organic matter that contained either cannibinoids or THC, in fact, I gathered so much that I was able to get kind of high after I packed what I had found in my pipe. Yet, I was still unsatisfied, and was about to go crazy because I really wanted to get stoned something fierce. Unfortunately, I was out of money, so I couldn’t simply go to the head shop and buy some Barely Legal or K6, which I had been smoking three grams worth a day. I wish it were as simple as that, but I didn’t know what to do. I had smoked all the resin out of my pipe already, so that avenue of chemical salvation was blocked from further adventures in intoxication, however, as I searched more and more for some weed or herbal incense, I came across a small piece of organic matter. It had hairs on it and resembled the make-up of some old hashish or maybe even some Jamaican weed that I had bought a year ago. I decided to put it in my pipe and smoke it, whatever it was. When I lit it up, it cracked and popped, and took a big drag. It tasted so disgusting that I threw up after the first invalidation of the substance. I then remembered that my cats had been going to the bathroom in my room when I lived in my apartment, and after coming home, I had cleaned up the carpet as well as I could, but must have left some of the shit stuck to the carpet. I had just smoked cat shit! It was at this point of epiphany that I knew I had a problem, Christ, I would smoke just about anything, including grass clippings, Depakote, Effexor, Wellbutrin, but never did I think I would stoop so low as to smoke cat feces. Needless to say, it wasn’t very good shit, and I do not recommend trying it, that is, unless you have a burning desire to throw up. Or, maybe you do like the taste of shit? I don’t know, but I still wouldn’t make my worse  enemy smoke cat shit, well, let me think about that again. I would like to have my ex-girlfriend Tara Dymond succumb to the inhalation of cat shit, actually. I would like to see her face as she took a big ol’ hit of feces. She is the imp of the devil, and I guess it would be nice to see her throw up, just because she is a dirty, nasty slut who liked to fart when I fucked her in the asshole.

Stan Flannery

JOE BRIGANDI'S FIRST HOMOSEXUAL EXPERIENCE

Ok, folks, this is the first time that I have composed anything in quite a while, and my mind is about to blow, so sit back, strap in, and prepare to read some verbal robotussin dude. You might puke, but the visuals are great.



The bathroom was illuminated by a single immortal bulb over the toilet, where Joe Brigandi, thirty three year old graduate student in accounting, was shaving his balls. He was listening to Metallica playing outside in the kitchen, and was trying his best to concentrate not to cut his scrotum when Master of Puppets came on, especially the chorus, where he accidentally nicked the base of his penis with the electric razor.
“Damn!” He roared with passionate fury. He grabbed a piece of toilet paper, put it on the laceration.
Then back to work. He wanted to be nicely shaven today, because last night on facebook he was talking to some kid named Damian, who was sixteen years old, six foot one, one hundred and eighty pounds, brown hair, and said that he had a “really big dick,” but Joe wasn’t so sure. People lie. Anyway, Joe agreed to “get together” with him today at Damian’s place, but Joe knew what that meant. His first homosexual experience. And, man, did he need it. His asshole was aching for penetration at night, and he wanted someone to cum on his face.
     He had been having fantasies lately, some very intensely satisfying, others sublimely orgasmic, all focusing on young men and lots of sperm. And now, as he stood up, looking in the mirror at his youthful appearance, noticing the smoothness of his balls and realizing that he was going to satisfy and be-satisfied by a nice young boy, made him feel like he was floating on a river of cum already.  And to think, he still had some bath salts! He could do a line now, one before he left, and he would be good to go for the rest of the night. But for some reason, he doubted that he wasn’t going to come across something tonight, something to coat his neural pathways with a heavy dosage of dopamine. He was mesmerized as he poured the remainder of the powder on the back to Weezer’s Maladroit CD case, cut two big fat lines of super-coke with his old Penn State library card, and then rolled up a twenty and took care of his head. Ah, much better, I could go forever, oh baby! He thought as his head lit up with fireworks and he could feel the MDPV invigorate his neural structure into a frenzied state of euphoric hyper-speed. Naked, high and feeling so fucking young, he smiled and licked his fingertips.
    Joe found his new patterned shirt, his jeans, put them on, and lit up cigarette, inhaling deeply, ah, this is good, he thought. He was now so alive, and ready for anything. This was his day, a new day when he would get to stick his cock in a nice young asshole and be penetrated in reciprocation. Joe picked up his cell phone and called Damian, just to be sure that this was still on.
“Hello, this is Joe,” he said into the receiver.
“Hi Joe, so are we going to fuck or what?”
“You bet, you ready?”
“I am, come over now!”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Bye.”
“Cya later, alligator!”
Joe quickly scurried around the apartment to find his keys. Here they are, he picked them up on the refrigerator, and put them in his pocket. Time to go. He grabbed his wallet, and a pack of condoms. Off to be gay!

    Joe got in his car and drove over to Damian’s place, which was in Park Forrest, a good little drive. It took about twenty minutes to find the place, but when he found it, he was happy. He turned off the ignition after he parked, got out, and walked to the door. He knocked. The door opened slowly, the sound of Madonna filled his ears. Like a Virgin was playing loudly, and then a young man appeared. He was just like his profile picture on face book.
“Hi! I’m Damian! And you must be Joe,” the young man said, showing Joe inside the house. “Come on in.”
“Cool, you look good, oh boy do you ever,” Joe said, trying  to adjust his growing penis in his pants.
“Thanks, so do you, so what do you say we go upstairs and screw, just me and you?”
“Sounds good,” Joe said. And with that they went to the bedroom. Damian sat Joe down on the bed and then they began to kiss. Damian’s hands were all over Joe, and this was a bit jarring, as Joe wasn’t used to having anyone touch him like this. Before he knew it, Damian unzipped joe’s fly, and reached in to grab the Sicilian monster inside his pants.
“Oh, this is big,” Damian said, as he put his face down to the cock, then began to lick the shaft, and stroke his balls.
“Damn, that feels good!” Joe moaned, and then he began to grab Damian’s cock. He reached his hands down his pants, and to his surprise, it didn’t feel like his own cock at all, but different, warmer or something.
“Go ahead Joe, suck it,” Damian said as he pulled down his pants and thrust his cock into Joe’s face. Joe took the penis with one hand, and engulfed the hard member with his mouth.
“I want to fuck you, Joey.”
“Do it then, right up my poop shoot.”
And so Damian yanked off Joe’s pants, ripped his shirt off, bent him over, spit shined his anus, and penetrated his asshole slowly, making sure to be careful with the tender virgin orifice.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAh! Yeah!” Joe screamed in pleasure mixed with pain. It hurt so good. Oh yeah. Before long, they were both sweating, and then Damian couldn’t hold out any longer, pulled his cock from Joe’s butt, and shot a load in his face. Joe licked up the cum like it was the best meal he’d ever had.
“My turn, Damian.”
“Ok,” Damian knelt on the bed with his ass sticking in the air, and Joe mounted him, and fucked him the best that he could. He forgot all about the condoms, oh well, I guess he would just have to take his chances, and lately he’d been really lucky, especially today, fucking like monkeys with Madonna’s Pappa Don’t Preach playing in the background. He ground his hips into Damian’s backside until he was ready to cum, then he shot his load deep within the walls of the young dude’s anus.
“Shrimpin!” Damian said, as he handed Joe a straw.
“Huh?”
“Stick it up my  butt and suck, baby.”
“Um…ok….” and so Joe sucked his cum out of Damian’s asshole. Then they both lay on their backs tired and satisfied. Damian broke out the blow then, and they did a few lines, before Joe said that he had to go because he had to get to get ready for finals.
Damian was in disbelief, “You. You have to study? Come on, man.”
“No, I really do, I don’t want to fail my test. But thanks for the sex, dude.”
“Yeah, you to. I hope you enjoyed it.”
“I certainly did.” Joe grabbed his clothes and headed home, but they agreed first to meet the day after his finals and screw. It was a perfect day, lots of cum, and Joe finally got his tender asshole penetrated.

I've Been High

As I step outside myself to see the light,
My inner mind’s eye set in second sight,
I glance around the jagged room,
The laughing solipsistic shadows loom--
They poke translucent fingers into my brain:
Reality and virtue to the clinically insane,
Existence is frayed, never to mend,
The galaxies of neurons shiver and bend,
As I float through the ceiling and roof,
Into the sky, deranged and aloof;
The clouds they look like cannabis leaves,
Growing and dying, my consciousness heaves
In artificial inspiration found in a vapor,
Lost in my own world, and scribbling on paper.

Drug use among the mentally ill

With the advent of the newer atypical antipsychotics, the dopamine theory behind schizophrenia is being challenged, because the older drugs, the “typical” antipsychotics tended to reduce dopamine in abundance and in turn controlled the patient’s schizophrenic positive symptoms, such as delusions and hallucinations. The dopamine theory of schizophrenia is actually based on the clinical awareness of the effects of cocaine and other stimulants on the brain. In the act of abusing cocaine, the user will experience a rush of dopamine that feels like he or she had just been awarded something for essentially nothing. Dopamine is a natural chemical in our minds that is produced when we are going to be naturally awarded something, or completed a task, or just are plain having fun. The overdose on cocaine is often misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic occurrence, when in part what is actually happening is only half of the picture. We are finding now that structural abnormalities in the brains of the psychotic individuals play a large role, the severe loss of grey matter over time, the enlarged cerebral ventricles, the language dominant hemisphere are even in some schizophrenics disorganized, so that the individual may suffer from voices due to abnormalities in the broca area of the brain. The newer antipsychotics, the “atypicals,” which arose in the mid-seventies with clozapine, which is unsafe to some people because it lowers the white blood cell count. Also, some of the newer drugs, like Olaynzapine, or Zyprexa actually increase the changes of extreme weight gain and diabetes. However, these drugs do not target specifically the dopamine neurology of the brain, but also the serotonin and norepinephrine components, which do seem to have a more positive benefit of relieving negative symptoms.  This is all great that the medical field is recognizing that the negative symptoms of schizophrenia: the lack of motivation, the flattened effect, the blunted language, the cognitive disorders, the mask-like face, and the autistic tendencies—remain as the most troublesome for patients to find success in life, even after the positive hallucinations, and even the paranoia is gone.

            However, due to the medications side effects, schizophrenic patients often times turn to cannabis and other illicit drug use to calm down both their positive symptoms (and in some cases to exacerbate them because they tend to give some people pleasure), and spark inspiration through chemicals so that they can function in somewhat normalcy, and at least aren’t as lonely caught up in their despair, instead they are high on marijuana. There have been tests to confirm that smoking cannabis actually may trigger psychosis, but as I see it, if there is a psychotic individual who can’t find any relief from their medications, and decides to smoke pot, so be it. But, pot is only one drug, because to get the rush of feeling manic, people with schizoaffective disorders and bi polar disorders, who are treated with the same medication as the schizophrenic in many cases, often times turn to stimulants, such as methamphetamine, cocaine, and designer drugs such as bath salts.

            There are many reasons why a person would want to take drugs, but having a mental illness only makes these reasons more prominent and pin pointing the causes of drug use in  the mentally ill, which is widely known and exemplified by case studies, and may help us find out the realities of all drug abuse in the general population.

            Whatever the case may be, the statistics that 60 percent of schizophrenics will have a lifelong drug history, should not be discouraging, but an invitation to find out “why” this is. If there was a way that science would develop  a medication that allowed schizophrenics feel the full range of human emotion then the drug issues may dissipate, although not completely, I’m sure. It is proven that the mentally ill often times abuse drugs in greater amounts and quantities than the rest of society, but those statistics may always be modified. I can just imagine, having all the right medications that give zest to the lives of schizophrenics, and hopefully they won’t damage their minds even more (although the brain damage issue, especially from chemical use is a tentative subject for me, as I believe in neural plasticity—if one part of the brain becomes damaged, another part takes over—this is based off of personal experiences with drugs, and my ability to come back and be able to tell about it. Anyway, drug use is simply part of the disease; it is not a moral disfigurement or a weakness. If anything, schizophrenics have to be ten times as strong as the average person, because they are constantly dealing with erroneous perceptions, “voices,” hallucinations, delusions, and lack of motivation and inability to communicate effectively.    

He Bore His Magic Cross

Your hypnogogic eyes

Tell of sorrow and tragic lies,

Of cosmic seismic waves,

And amphetamine’s thrilling ways;

Of a rattlesnakes hide,

Away from the winning goal,

Holding onto the fallacies of pride—

Your heart has a giant hole,

So fill it with amber rays of gain,

Solid gold dangers persist,

Stoking the fire’s healthy main,

And your belief system’s resist,

Your brain’s cognitive frames,

Of perception and second-sight,

You fall into the desire of fright;

 All to escape reality’s plight.

Poem I wrote in ellegy to some guy I killed in Nam

With hyacinths in her hair, she thought she was modern,

Falling down to the abyssal plains of her bedroom floor at night,

The Rapture was never here--en fin della monde che noi li capitiamo, e' Io sento bene.

The poet disappears; this the discovery of our time,

Some poor schizo was saying last evening,

Her protection was all transparent, brittle and cracking,

And his manner just a bit off—Io ho bisogno dire qualcosa, primavera, sono stato uno troppodipendenzia, secondo, io sono stanco perche io dormo niente, e finamente, voglio vederti nudo.

Who are you talking to, up there, alone inside deep psychoanalytic rooms at night,

Some varying in temperature, others in perception,

To those ‘imaginary’ people, she says, and then in repeat.

Severe anhedonia and negative affective syndrome was ubiquitous,

Swallowing the right from the left, the good and the ugly—

The popular and the prude,

The interstellar Salvia nights, and the long path of bleakness—

Into another world, where, greedily she is consumed by all her devils.

He commented on her flower, it gave her chills of those before her,

Writing word-salad, neologisms made for a rainy day.

Obama Bin Ladin.

 

me doing what I do, so damn well

Stan Flannery and Jenna Haze were sitting on the floor of their new apartment; they both have been up for the past two days living on bath salts, having a good time, and fucking. It was three years ago when when she was first starting at Penn State. Jenna was really “cute,” she was just like your home town girl. Her big role in the pornography world would boost her confidence, but her persona and all that was below it, including the world in her dreams; Jenna was always the same girl. Life has a way of changing somebody, sometimes life turns a person into someone they would rather not be. She had a good way about her, didn’t change, and Stan needed this in his life. She had always been unafraid to talk in public, always thinking she deserved the spotlight, all the while Stan would watch, from a distance, he had his head cocked to an angle watching her snort a fat line of White Rush up her left nostril.

“Nice?” Stan asked with no sincerity at all. Shit was killing them, but it felt so good.

“Man, oh man yes, now when do you have to go to work at Wal-Mart?” Jenna answered with equally sardonic conviction.

Stan stood and walked over to her, his hand touched her own—“I work at eleven. What time is it, eight thirty, shit I got time. You know, I spend allot of time counting your eyelashes, one by one, each separate follicle holding onto the requiems of some archaic volumes of dream journals, published  by Joyce’s own daughter..”

“You used to say, ‘I was young and old.’ I remember, but does that mean that you think I am better off as a fossil?” She said, as if perplexed at her own thinking, having felt the separation, images of former watchdogs howl at the raging lunatic moon.

“No, there is an album quote, ‘She will make a beautiful fossil.’ Life’s Rich Pageant, REM 1986. Pretty old, sounds like your memory is still in working condition. Let’s play some chess, eh? Then, maybe some sex?” Stan muttered, protected by his unmotivated ways of dealing properly with his negative symptoms; now they were there, alright, big time. He couldn’t feel a thing anymore, aside from the pseudo-affective properties of his Universe, In Progress.

                Stan was sure to quit that job, but he just couldn’t pull himself together long enough to really even think about quitting, because now, he was head over heels in love with Jenna Haze. And it is not unlike Jenna to exhibit her own version of the “flattened affect” every now and then, but most of the time, she was very upbeat, and thankfully, un-robotic. This allowed Stan to have a good time with a real person, instead of hanging out with people who were unaware of the symbiotic nature of delusional creatures.

“I have a brain implant,” Jenna said, now convinced of a device of a “unknown” purpose, which showed up  on the MRI, alright, indeed, just it looked like an ink blot instead of a tumor, and it was on both sides of her brain hemispheres, in her cerebral ganglia, which may be a valid reason for her rapid onset tardive dyskinesia (which was arrested with the removal of Stelazine to her drug cocktail she took, every night upon night of a hell of heavens.

“We should really smoke something before we play, yea know?” I asked.

“Ok, got some Salvia.”

“No, shit, we can’t do that though, I can’t go into working tripping; I’ll already be flying high as shit and people will be wondering what the hell I’m on, but that’s ok, because it makes the job go by faster.”

“You’re right, how ‘bout some herbal incense, just the basic Spike Ultra—I’ll pack that fucker fat, and we can get really lit up, then I’ll beat you at chess.” Jenna said.

Stan grabbed her left breast with playful aggressiveness, “Come on, baby, you ain’t no Karyn HunTTing are you?”

Jenna lit up the pipe and then took a deep hit before passing it to me, after exhaling said, “I don’t know who that person is, who is she?”

“Who is ‘she’?”

“Yeah, her.” Jenna’s mind now was becoming flexible enough to throw away the standard belief systems, and penetrate into the deepest, chasm of chess secrets. “Let’s play!”
“Don’t you want me to tell you who she is?” Stan remarked.

“Tell me afterwards, let’s play chess!”

“Then we should have sex, ok, Jenna? It has been a couple of hours, and I know we are both trying to overcome our sex addictions, but it doesn’t look so good right now, because all we want to do is fuck one another. It makes me shudder in fright to think that we have spent so much creative energy in bed, but it sure was fun.”

She stood up and brought the board down from the top of the bookcase. “Here we go, Stan, let the game commence!”

Jenna cleared her throat and then said, with crystalline conviction:

“And I will show you something different from either    

Your shadow at morning striding behind you      

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

Stan looked frightened for an instant, before realizing that she was quoting the Waste Land, then  he eased up and let her go—she was wearing thin and cracking, look at how fast she is moving, he thought. Not another circuitous relationship; not what I need.

She set up her pieces and then he followed suit, noticing the clock on the wall was moving again—it’s been a long time coming. Maybe she is controlling the clock with her mind! Stan was feeling that creepy-get-away-from-me-don’t-look-me-in-the-eye-I-don’t-like-people’s-intentions he often felt during the beginning of his work shift. Working at Wal-Mart for Stan was a celebration of paranoia, where live entities from alternative Universes existed, side by side, in a strange relationship of sympathy and respect for one another. Stan was a college graduate, and would often throw in some subtle jokes about having an English degree, which is, for reasons unknown to him, was considered a “difficult” and prestigious major. It really is just for a bunch of people that are addicted to information, so they read all the time, and enjoy the act of writing—having anything to do with language, Stan at work, however, was entirely mute, not talking to anyone. He hated these days, today would not be like that. Back to the chess, he thought, back to the chess: and in repeat.

                Entirely ready to have her beat him in ten moves, he sat up, and they played a game of chess. Stan played white, so naturally started out E4 (Bobby Fischer’s favorite opening move as white). She followed by meeting my pawn with E5. He was developing his pieces when he noticed her nipples were getting harder. He could them underneath her see-through tee shirt she bought last week. Suddenly, Stan realized that she had left her queen in trouble; two more moves, he could fork her queen king and rook, that is, if she sacrifices her bishop in return for a pawn. And she did exactly that, so he responded with a quick discovered check from his knight, which was guarding his queen, and then took Jenna’s queen with the knight.

“I resign! Let’s just fuck!” she said.

“Ok, I’m not going to argue.”  So they began to kiss, and they could feel the passion building up between them; with a combination of the bath salts, and the intensity of young lovers, they were both high a kite, amphetamine facades razed. She took a look at his cock, showing its bulge in the front of his pants. She wanted it inside her, all the time. It was the perfect size, for her anyway, but she liked the feeling of having entire seedless cucumbers up her vagina, so her pain was immediately neurologically processed and transferred to feelings of pleasure. She unbuckled his belt, and placed her hands on his dick. She began to moan with anticipation.

“There’s nothing holding you back, Jenna. Suck my dick, and suck it good.”

She had Stan’s cock in her mouth, and he wanted her to deep throat it, but she never would; saying that she has to really concentrate to do that, at least to guys who have nine inches of dick. Stan watched as his dick was being sucked, she was using allot of saliva today and it was getting all over his stomach and pants, but that was ok, he could clean up before work—it’s just spit, after all. “Take it all!” Stan grunted, pushing her head down. And then, because he was fully aware Jenna didn’t like it when you were too rough with her, he eased up, took his hands off of her head, but she remained with his entire cock in her mouth; when her face turned red, he pulled away, knowing that she could pass out from lack of oxygen.

“See how much I love you?”

“No one has ever done that for me before, thank you Jenna!”

“What are porn star girlfriends for, now fuck me!”

 And with that imperative from the Starlets mouth, he sensed it was her turn now, and he followed suit by pulling down her white tennis shorts, then her panties, before engaging in sweet tasting oral sex. Sometimes it was so good, that Stan lost track of time.

“Come on, I want your cock, deep inside me!”

“Ok,” Stan said, and prepared to mount her doggie style—it was this position that allowed for the furthest penetration. Then he fucked her as best he could, having been with her for over a month now, Stan was beginning to know just when she was going to cum, so that he would time it just right in order to taste her fresh vaginal juices, and then have her blow him until he came, but today, he decided to cum on her asshole. First he spit on her puckered asshole, before sliding his cock, centimeter by centimeter into her. After fucking her tight ass for five minutes, it was time to shoot his load, so he pulled out and shot it on her now gaping asshole.

“OH…….Stan…..”

“Yeah, baby, that’s how its done.”          

Schizophrenia and Human Evolution of Complex Linguistic Abilities

The following is an article on schizophrenia and its relationship to natural human evolution. I am writing this from more of a personal, subjective level than one of scientific authenticity, and I am basing allot of my conclusions off of inferences into my own psychological experiences. One of the most prominent features of the schizophrenic spectrum of disorders is that of abnormal linguistic dysfunction displayed by individuals suffering from the disorder. Interestingly, during the development of modern man, that is, the addition of the neomammillian cortex and the movement of linguistic dominance from the right hemisphere of the brain to the left, the mind of homo sapiens started to exceed its metabolic capabilities, which led to some humans acquiring the cognitive disorders associated with schizophrenia. It can then be said that having schizophrenia is a natural bi product of essential positive selection. I would like to shed some light on this subject through some of my research on the subject, and my personal experience of having a schizophrenic illness.        

                First of all, I would like to introduce myself as someone who has had a schizophrenic illness for the past fourteen years. When I was eighteen, I fell into a paranoid manic psychosis. I was a freshman in college at the time, and I started to feel remarkably “different,” but this feeling was not entirely unpleasant as some may believe, in fact it was quite pleasurable. I had been suffering from depression for a year prior to the psychotic episode, and the elation of being manic gave me a feeling that I was somehow alive for the first time. It was felt that I was on the verge of cosmic epiphany, and I no longer needed to sleep; instead, all that I wanted to do was stay up all night and talk. For a while, people didn’t notice that I was becoming psychotic, rather they thought I was simply in a good mood, and doing well for the first time in a few years. The insomnia persisted, and I started to talk in “loose associations,” that is, my ideas were strung together by weak relationships between ideas; however, I felt that I was making perfect sense. Then language itself took on another dimension: everything that came out of people’s mouths took on symbolic significance that I interpreted as something I was just beginning to understand. For instance, a simple statement always meant something deeper, profound, and often related to religious and celestial subjects. I felt God put special significance on my existence, and I was on Earth for some specific messianic mission, which, being born on December 25, gave me the delusional hypothesis that I was in fact Jesus Christ, Son of God here to save people’s souls. Soon, however, I was obviously unable to work, and was hospitalized, where I was medicated with anti-psychotic medication. I was diagnosed with “acute psychosis,” and the psychiatrist was not definite if I was going to develop schizophrenia, but I was still convinced, for the length of my three week visit to the psychiatric ward of the hospital, that I was a divine messenger, of some sort. The word “schizophrenia,” however, when he said it gave me the sobering realization that I may in fact be ill. This was strange to me since I felt so well, so alive, and enlightened.

                When I was released from the hospital, I was treated with just anti-psychotic medication, and soon became very depressed. For a year, I went from psychiatrist to psychiatrist trying to figure out exactly what I was suffering from. I spent some more time in another psychiatric hospital where I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. At this time, I was quite certain that I was not a divine messenger, or Jesus Christ, but I was still having a hard time processing language, and I was paranoid. Finally, after going to the hospital again for my depression, they diagnosed me (I feel correctly) with schizoaffective disorder bi polar type one. Schizoaffective disorder is a rare illness that affects about .05 percent of the population, and includes the symptoms of schizophrenia and an affective illness. In this case, my affective ailment was bi polar one disorder, which was indicated by my mood congruent psychotic episode. Yet, I did not just have bi polar disorder, because my delusions were so bizarre, and I was still having cognitive symptoms associated with schizophrenia when I was not manic; therefore, I am said to have schizoaffective, which unfortunately has a worse prognosis than does that of bi polar disorder, but fortunately a better overall outcome than does having schizophrenia.

                In any case, I finished college with a bachelor’s degree in English and a minor in psychology. I earned a 3.7 in my major of study. This, I find to be unusual, given my deteriorated linguistic abilities during my psychosis; however, I found that, when normalized, I am endowed in language abilities, and I love to read and especially take great enjoyment in writing. I am a naturally curious person, and having schizoaffective disorder provided a catalyst for my interest in abnormal psychology, especially schizophrenic illnesses. Lately, I have become fascinated with the theory that schizophrenia and human evolution are intimately related, that is, schizophrenia may be a result of positive natural selection.

                I always suspected, even before beginning my research on the subject, the schizophrenic spectrum of illnesses are partly disorders of language. Human beings think and communicate, primarily with language, but in schizophrenia, this ability is hindered. Schizophrenics tend to have difficulty expressing themselves effectively using linguistic means, sometimes they are completely mute, or at other times speak in gibberish—and I’m sure that my speech was nonsensical to other people during my ride through the realm of psychosis, but I thought it made complete sense. During evolution of the homo sapien mind, we developed complex language usage through the development of the neo mammalian cortex, growing from the reptilian base of the brain, which enabled us to reserve more brain power for executive functioning, which takes place in the frontal cortex. However, metabolically, the human mind was required to use more energy, and this caused some cognitive dysfunction in many individuals, manifesting in schizophrenia and psychosis.

                I have always been creative, from the time I was very little. My imagination has always been wild, which may very well have led to some of the bizarre delusional ideas that I developed so easily during my psychotic break from reality. There have been many famous people who had schizotypal personalities (not full-blown schizophrenia per se, but displayed indications of having symptomatic characteristics of the disorder), and these people were often times had schizophrenia inherent in their family genealogy, although these individuals usually never succumbed to having a complete loss of reality. It can be said that the slightly different perceptional outlook on the world that these individuals had led to some very breakthrough thinking in the arts and sciences. I can only think of a few people with full-blown schizophrenia who were considered “geniuses,” John Forbes Nash being one of them. He is a mathematician, who happens to still be alive today, and will be remembered for his groundbreaking work in economics and game theory. The movie “A Beautiful Mind” was based on his life, although the depictions of his schizophrenia are inaccurate, it is still a good film that displays the suffering of John Nash and shows how his unique perceptions led to highly original mathematical ideas. In the movie it depicts him having visual hallucinations, and this is an erroneous depiction, because he, as well as the majority of schizophrenics, have auditory hallucinations, or “voices.” I saw John Nash speak at Penn State. He gave a lecture entitled, “An Interesting Equation In Relation to Space Time and Gravitational Waves,” and although I understood next to nothing (I have no background in mathematics), I still enjoyed the opportunity to get to see him speak. He appeared to be relatively stable, which is amazing, given he recovered without the use of anti-psychotic medications. However, I noticed, that his mind would make random associations that made no sense to me, and when I asked a person who was also there at the lecture, a student of mathematics who knew some about quantum mechanics, about whether or not he was making sense, the student said that he was, but his logic was very loose. I made the conclusion that he was still suffering from the disease, but had he taken the anti-psychotics, he may not have been able to penetrate into deepest of mathematical complexities as easily, or at all. I’m tentative to take mine on a regular basis, but I generally do comply to the psychiatrists recommendations, although, I must admit, there are times when I don’t take my medication, just so I can feel the rush of creativity associated with the manic state. However, unlike someone suffering from bi polar disorder, I experience a much more severe mania—one of which is accompanied by schizophrenic thought disturbances, and paranoid delusions. I often times feel the police are following me, and eye contact frightens me because I feel that people are reading my mind and inserting thoughts into my brain. This, of course, only happens when I am experiencing mania, and upon having these symptoms of the schizophrenia, I generally take my medication—unfortunately, my medication is very sedating, and I tend to sleep for an entire day following an episode, and upon awakening, I feel very sluggish, and miserable. I suppose, being creative, I am also curious as to the internal workings of the human mind, and I was given a very unique opportunity to see the world from an altered perspective, not from doing drugs either, but rather, just from not taking my medication. I’m not sure why, but my control of language is still intact no matter if I’m severely manic, whereas during my psychosis, my speech was often derailed, and my linguistic cognitive abilities suffered, especially in my brains capacity to process language.  I can still remember this vividly, even though it was over fourteen years ago to this day, and I have allot of empathy for people suffering from linguistic disabilities of schizophrenia.

                Based on my own self-evaluation and my grades in college, I can confidently say that I have a high degree of verbal intelligence, and perhaps my psychosis was simply my brain’s language ability working overtime, which led to the discordant trends in my cognition and interpretation of the world around me. This is very possible, that my brain, like the rest of the schizophrenic population, was just not suited for functioning with higher metabolic energy, and essentially “cracked” due to neurological overload. But, now, having been treated successfully for many years, my mind is now able to function using a great deal of energy, however, if I would have been able to harness the abnormal mental energy consumption during my psychosis, and use this extra brain power for creative means, I don’t know what great things I could have accomplished, but that is just fantastical ideation that may not really have any objective basis in reality at all, after all I am crazy.

                They say that James Joyce was the only one who could understand his schizophrenic sister when she was speaking in psychotic tongues during her illness, and looking at “Ulysses,” one can clearly see Joyce’s innate access into the world of schizophrenic thought, which is unique, and may very well stand as a testament to his evolved genius, which was derived from this insight into the language of inwardness. There are many similarities between the speech of schizophrenics and modern and postmodern poetry as well, both are rich in metaphor, deep in symbolism—and at times, seem extraordinarily cryptic to the interpreter or reader, who must use essentially more cognitive energy to extract meaning which may be difficult to ascertain. Still, the one difference between schizophrenic speech, and the poems of a post modern writer, is that the schizophrenic’s intent of conveying meaning, although seemingly meaningful to them personally, is often impossible to harness by the healthy individual, whereas the intentions of the author can be successfully extracted through logical literary means of interpretation. The poem “The Wasteland,” by T.S. Eliot, is one of the most difficult pieces of poetry in modern English, but its intentions, and the meanings are explicable by literary scholars, who have put a tremendous amount of work in its interpretation; however, the schizophrenic, who often times uses “word salad,” or a mish-mash of gibberish, and “neologisms,” or made up words, is usually disregarded as being irrelevant and incommunicative—therefore, the schizophrenic’s linguistic abnormalities in their cognitive functioning are discounted, but maybe we should pay more attention to what they are saying, and will find, like Joyce may have very well found in pay attention to his sister, a deeper significance in the complexities of the human language. Just like the Shamans of ancient cultures, who were no doubt schizophrenic or schizotypal, the mentally ill may—if humans become less ignorant and more accepting of our differences—provide needed enlightenment that may boost the cultural and scientific powers of mankind. Even the most chronic of the mentally ill, may very well one day become great contributors to mankind, but at the present time, these individuals are sometimes confined to institutions, when in a more advanced society, we will be holding them in great esteem, because they may hold the answers to the mystery of human evolution.

                For now,  it cannot be concluded that schizophrenia is not advantageous in existing in civilized society, but in time, the keys to life’s most confounding evolutionary mysteries may be revealed through careful examination of the internal processing of individuals that are “suffering” from schizophrenia. It may come into the light, that, just as it is known now that having relatives with schizophrenia may lead to one’s own creative ingenious, having the illness itself, if science can figure out how to help those with the disorder harness the energy of their mind’s possible advanced cognitive processes, may lead to future evolution in the way in which we communicate. This sounds a bit outlandish and fantastical, but in all reality we are only beginning to understand neurological functions of the human mind, so this speculation is not a product of me alone; the interest in the schizophrenias has boomed in scientific community, who are well aware too that there are some significant answers available concerning, not only a possible “cure” to the disease, but also strong evidence of the evolutionary development of language and the human race in its entirety.

                Interestingly, schizophrenics tend to not be as capable of reproduction as the rest of the healthy population, but even so, there is increasing growth in the rate of incidences of people developing schizophrenia. If healthy people are reproducing more so than those affected with the disorder, then why is the prevalence of schizophrenia increasing rather than decreasing? Wouldn’t the disorder be eventually eradicated through negative selection, or is the occurrence of the disorders frequency a sign that we are still in a state of evolution, that schizophrenia serves a natural human developmental purpose? Although this remains as mind boggling as the disorder itself, the truth in these objective, measurable facts will one day serve to add elucidation for the scientific community as to schizophrenia’s probable imperative function of existing in the psychology of modern man. In my opinion, schizophrenia serves a purpose to society that deserves an even closer observation.

I am certain, after having been through the mysterious psychological experience of psychosis that having a schizophrenic illness was a mixed blessing, which gave me empirical insight towards the nature of the disorder—and because I was so fortunate enough to be able to recover to a degree that I can function effectively in society, I am driven to communicate through my unlikely written aptitude to those who are interested in learning about an essential component of human history, which happens to be found in the study of the perplexing nature of the schizophrenic syndrome. All too often schizophrenia is misunderstood as being an illness reserved for violent or delinquent individuals who cannot function in society and are in constant need of added assistance, but I am proof that this is a fallacious assumption of the mentally ill. Whether a person have an affective disorder such as bi polar, schizophrenia, or a personality disorder, he or she is  most likely completely able to live outside of an institution, and most likely the reader of this article met someone, or encountered a person with a schizophrenic illness this week, but wasn’t even aware—this is due to the effectiveness of the newer psychiatric medications. One more thing, before I conclude this article, I really need to emphasis that schizophrenia is not having a “split-personality” or “multiple personality,” actually when a person exhibits two or more individual personas, he or she is suffering from multiple personality disorder. This is a rare personality disorder that has nothing to do with schizophrenia. “Schizo” actually has German origins, and means “split,” but this splitting has nothing to do with having two personalities, but rather, denotes the individual’s divorce or splitting of emotional capacity from cognitive mental functions. The schizophrenic may seem to be withdrawn from the world, emotionally divorced, which is labeled “the flattened effect,” named this for the essentially lack of, or “flat” emotions the schizophrenic often time displays. The individual may appear cold or lifeless, and not be able to experience pleasure as would a healthy individual; however, with the newer medications and the advent of the atypical anti-psychotics, these negative symptoms are more easily controlled so that the sufferer can live a more fulfilling life. Society needs to be aware that the stigma attached to schizophrenia must be removed in order to better cope with understanding this enigmatic disorder’s perplexing nature, which is in fact the root of this stigmatization, because people tend to be afraid of what they don’t understand, and over-generalize complexities in order to simplify things that are too difficult to explain without a significant amount of acquired knowledge. I learned a good deal about the schizophrenic family of illnesses before I actually acquired schizoaffective disorder, this is because my mother had schizophrenia and was institutionalized for twenty years, but people who have no direct close contact with someone suffering from schizophrenia may never feel the need to learn about the disorder; and, I feel that it is imperative for every person to be more aware of mental illnesses. We are now finally becoming more comfortable with talking about the affective disorders, and bi polar disorder is finding a more common place in everyday conversation because we are now aware of the disorders prevalence, although, personally, I think there are too many people being diagnosed with bi polar disorder, and  actually just have mood swings, but I’m not a psychiatrist. One of the less impressive things about public awareness of bi polar is its tendency to now be glamorized as a disorder of “geniuses,” however, being labeled a creative illness this is not a far cry from the truth that many great artists, writers, and especially poets suffered from manic depression, however, these individuals would tell you, that they would have most likely have accomplished more if they didn’t have to go through the hell of the illness. Schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder are not at this present time being thought of as being desirable to be diagnoses with, that is, at least what I gather, and for a long time I was embarrassed to say that I had schizoaffective disorder, instead I would—if I had to confess, for whatever reason of having a disability—that I had bi polar disorder, but now, after learning about the unique situation I have in life, and my privileged vantage point into the internal world of schizophrenia, I am not ashamed at conveying to others what I am diagnosed with, and am usually pleasantly surprised to find that people actually listen to me when I talk about my illness. Although I can’t speak of my illness with medical authority, because I am no doctor or scientist, I can however, discuss it in from a more personal level, which I have tried to do so here in this article.  I hope that after having read this and my other writings on the subject of schizophrenic disorders, you will become more respectful to the psychological differences between people in society, and aware that, although understanding mental illness is difficult and at times, and often emotionally taxing because we may watch our loved ones going through the distresses of mental disorders, it is not in our best interest to try to hide behind our irrational fears of the unexplainable phenomena of psychotic disorders, but instead we should try to find enough humility in our hearts and become more educated in the subject before we judge what we don’t understand.

We should never make the quick assumptions that people with schizophrenia are “intellectually inferior” to us, because individuals with schizophrenia, in all likelihood, are intelligent and usually creative, but unable to access much of their cognitive abilities because their brains in many occasions have structural abnormalities that lead to neurological dysfunctions in linguistic comprehension, language production, emotional withdraw, and other thought disturbances. But, it should be highlighted that the schizophrenic’s disadvantageous  predicament could very easily be the result of natural human evolution, only the development of the schizophrenic mind was affected by the colossal increase in metabolic consumption, and in turn, the system essentially “crashed.” I testified of my own experience of having a schizophrenic psychosis where I experienced this complete thought fragmentation, which focused primarily on my language abilities. To this day, I am uncertain of how I am able to write as effectively as I am able to do given my state of linguistic decline that lasted for over a year during the beginning stages of my illness, but having recovered, and having obsessive curiosity to the origin of the schizophrenic spectrum of disorders, I discovered through some simple research, these interesting ideas about the disorder and its relation to human evolution. I hope you enjoyed reading this, and have become more aware of the importance of scientific research into the nature of schizophrenia. I also would like to think that, if you haven’t done so already, have dismissed some of the previous dogmatic stigmatization associated with societies limited comprehension of schizophrenia, and realize that those who have schizophrenic disorders should be respected and admired for the unique and difficult journey they take in life every day. Thank you, and I hope that if you have a mental disorder and have just read this article, know that I wish you the best,  and to always keep hope alive; one day, soon I have a feeling, there are going to be even more effective treatment of schizophrenic illnesses, so don’t ever give up the fight. Remember, you are unique in that you have an original perspective on the world around you that should be considered a gift, although it usually seems like a curse. I know how this feels, but if you keep it in your mind that because you have been to hell and back, you are stronger than the average person, who should listen to your story, and I bet if you start to talk about your experiences with having a mental illness, others will listen. It is your job to help teach the world that the mentally ill have a far greater significance to mankind than ever, and as society slowly wakes up from its deep sleep, people are just starting to become aware that schizophrenia and severe mental illness are distinct features of mankind that exhibit human’s evolved intellectual superiority over the rest of the animal kingdom.

               

A Golden Girls Parody

Picture it, Sicily

Picture it: Miami Florida, 1989. Blanch and Rose, two old hags, were fighting:

“You’re father was a micro-cephalic and your mother was a half-black, half-Mexican whore!” Blanch Deveraux said to Rose Nylon, in protest to being called an “easy slut.”
Rose smiled a big ol’ St. Olef grin, the smell of Viking shit oozing out of her pores, filling the kitchen with Nordic funk (not such a bad smell to Blanch, but she also loved the smell of grey-haired cocks of men after putting three hours on the tred-mill). “Blanch, you are a whore. And if you think that I slept with your ex-husband George, you’re out of your mind.”
Blanch thought back on the picture that she had derived this belief from, thought deeply, and concurred that it wasn’t Rose after all, but some retarded girl George was visiting on a trip to Nebraska when he was in the army. “Oh, ok, I’m sorry, now let’s kiss and make-up.”
Then their eyes met, like they had three years before, when they both were attached so deeply that it bordered lesbianism; but, this time it was for real. They floated to one another, literally, Rose’s feet lifted three inches off the floor, her slippers fell off, and then they kissed. It was as if the kitchen was filled with light—artificial as Blanch’s wrinkle-defying make-up. Rose’s tongue circled Blanch’s mouth, tasting the MacDonalds that Blanch had eaten earlier in the day. Blanch, in turn could taste the horrible unpalatable tang of scrapple. Then they started to suck one another’s necks. Rose was biting tenderly on Blanch’s nape, while Blanch licked fastidiously on Rose’s lower neck. And then her kisses turned downward, and she unbuttoned Rose’s shirt with her tongue.
“Oh, my god, you certainly have learned some things!”
Blanch unsnapped Roses’ bra. “You’re damn right, they don’t call me Albert Einstein’s whore little sister for no reason. I’ve got a IQ of lasciviousness of 190.”
“I don’t know what that word means, but I’ll say so. Hey, how bout we take this to the bedroom?”
But as she said “bedroom” Sophia, the most elderly of the bunch walked through the swinging door only to see the horrible sight: something that she wasn’t all to unfamiliar towards; she had in her youth fooled around with the similar sex—then again, she was twelve, not haggard and wrinkled.
“What the hell is going on here?” Sophia said.
Then Dorothy walked through the door and chimed in, “I don’t know, but it kinda looks like something that you’d see at the zoo. Don’t you remember ma? Those two gorillas humping?”
“Yeah, pussycat, I do, but these are too old, and too female to be primates mating….and with too much make-up. Gorillas don’t care if they are aging. They do it with grace, well, whatever, you know what I mean.”
“I’m sorry,” Blanch said, wiping her lips of Norwegian spittle. “I guess we got carried away.”
“We sure did,” Rose said, “I think that I flew there for a second, and I got all crazy. Now can I ask a dumb question?”
Dorothy couldn’t miss the opportunity, “Better than anyone I know.” (the canned laughter going off, can’t you hear it?)
“Ok, guys,” Blanch said, “I think the mood has changed enough for me to ask you why you are both wearing safari outfits.”
“No, no, no,” Dorothy began, “These are the uniforms we’re going to wear when we “really” start our job today.
“You kinda look funny,” Rose said.
“We look funny, and you two didn’t making out in the middle of the kitchen. I mean, it could have at least been in the back so that we wouldn’t see you immediately. God, I feel like I’m back at Shady Pines, giving a little lecture to a couple of old women who thought that they were lesbians. Dementia related, of course. Speaking of, Rose,” Sophia continued, “You sure are getting dumber and dumber these days, you sure you ain’t coming down with Alzheimer’s?”
“No, no, no, never….” Rose looked perplexed, “What is that, anyway, “Old-timers.”
“Forget it,” Dorothy said. “Come on Ma, let’s go, we can’t be late.”
Then Blanch looked at the clock, “Oh, dear, I’ve got a date with that cute plumber, “Big Pipe” Peter, as I like to call him. He’s going to do some work….on me.”
Rose looked at the time, it was around three o’clock. She never had anything to do. If she would just have some other friends. If she would just have a sex life, no, not like Blanch and her rapturous, rampant, slutty life-for-getting laid existence—just a boyfriend to fool around with; watch a movie with; play doctor. Well, maybe she’d read a book, she thought, but Dorothy’s books are so hard to read, and I’ve already read most of mine. Hey, yeah, then she thought of it, she’d go to the library.
“I think I’ll go to the library,” she said.
“Sounds like a plan; now, I can almost see his plumber’s crack in my face right now. I got to scidatle. See you girls.”
“Bye,” Sophia said.
Dorothy smiled that big, “I’m the ugly one and I don’t care grin,” and waved.

Rose sat patiently on the couch for the bus to come. She waited and waited, and then realized--dumb me--she forgot to watch for the bus. She’d missed it, now what? Watch the tube. She turned on the television and searched for her pack of cigarettes. She’d started to smoke a few months ago. The girls didn’t know it, but she didn’t really care if they did. She was a rebel. She found them, went to the window to smoke, and then there was a knock, knock, knock at the door.
“Hey, it’s me Stan.”
“Stan! What are you doing here? I thought that you were going to stay away, that is, after Dorothy found out that we were worshiping….him..together?”
“Oh, the Satan thing, and my folie a deux delusions that I was transferring into your mind, that we were both Reptoid aliens secretly living in an underground base. Yeah, I know. That was an attempt at getting you to kill Dorothy for leaving me. I’m sorry. But who we were worshiping, well, he exists. His name is Lucifer, keeper of the light, come take his hand.” Stan extended his hand to Rose, who was becoming entranced in his eyes. Stan said, “I’ll be right back.” He ran out to his car to get his pentagram and candles. Oh, this was going to be good. Sure is. He was finally going to get Rose to kill that hooker through hypnotism. He was going to mesmerize that bitch into killing his ex-love and love forever after, Dorothy Patrillo, Spornak.
Stan burst through the door, “Here I am!”
“Here I am!” Rose said, naked as a baby, her nipples pointing at the ground. Gravity sucks. Actually, Newton was wrong, her tits were being pushed, not pulled through gravitational force.
“There you are!” He said, now confused, which was more important, to get his noodle wet, which never happened, or to convince Rose that Dorothy was a conspirator with the goal of killing everyone with secret potions. Ah, he could always do both. So, he jumped on the opportunity, picking Rose off her feet, and taking her to the bedroom where they discovered “Big Pipe” Peter and Blanch fucking in Rose’s bedroom.
“What is going on here?!” Rose protested in the midst of heat, anger though creeping in, up through her spinal column, inside her feeble mind, out her eyes, and through her nipples which were become red with rage.
“Sorry,” hee hee,” Blanch said with her southern charm.
“Yuh, um…sorry Hey, nice tits. Firmer than this hooker.” Peter said, with no conviction at all.
“Hmm….guess we’ll have to go to her room,” Stan said, pointing towards Blanch’s bed.
“Yeah, that’s what we’re going to do! You’re right Stan,” So they both took one another’s hand and waltzed into Blanch’s room. And all this while Rose was butt naked.
Stan stuck his hand inside her ass crack, felt her puckered asshole, testing to see how much spit he would have to apply for easy entry. About this much, he thought as he brought his hand near his mouth, spit a bunch of mucus and spit mixture (just the right amount now. Dude was fifty six. Knew what he was doing), then he finger fucked Rose’s asshole for a few minutes, then he stuck two, then three, then Four! then FIVE! fingers up her poop shoot.
“Oh, my God! That compares only to, only to George, my ex-husband, and he was hung like a horse; hey, let me see your pee-pee.”
“What did you call my cock?”
“Pee-pee.” It’s one of those play names that Charlie and I used when we were having sex. Just you remind me so much of him, anyway, let me see you penis.”
Stan coughed as though he was uncomfortable, as he unzipped his trousers only to reveal a very tiny uncircumcised dick. Something an asian dude would laugh at. “Here it is, don’t laugh,”
But she started to giggled, she couldn’t help it. “Don’t laugh bitch!”
“Hee heee!” she fell into full-blown laughter as Stan’s penis twitched once, twice, then drooped down again like an injured caterpillar.
“Stop laughing, alright, that’s it….I’m leaving, and the hell with my present to you.”
Rose sobered, “I’m sorry, Stan. I guess I just got carried away, what is it you have for me.” Rose was always one for presents.
“No,” Stan said as he walked through the bedroom door, grabbed his jacket, looked at the time to see that it was five o’clock
“Oh, my,” he said, “I’ve got to get the hell over to Nilda’s house. That Philippine gal sure makes me smile, and good longganisa. Damn good adobo too. She’s also where I got this aphrodisiac I was going to give to you…..forget it.” By this time Rose was fully dressed and about to wave goodbye to Stan, but if he really had what she wanted for so very long: a love potion, yes, she could have Miles for all time.
“Ok, bye, maybe I’ll see you soon?” Rose asked.
“Oh, ok. Nice asshole by the way.” And with that Stan was out the door, but only to bump into Dorothy and Sophia on the way out.
“Stanly Sbornak! What are you doing here?” Dorothy scowled and hissed.
“Sorry, just leavin, takin’ a plane actually.”
Sophia raised he old arms as if she were Mussolini speaking to a crowd, “Well why don’t you leave on a jet plane, and I don’t care when you’ll be back again. Maybe never Tiny, he heh….Dorothy told me all about that.”
“Why me!? I’m going to kill you Dorothy, mark my words.” Stan said as he stomped his way to his car.

As the evening turned into night and Blanch was yet to be seen, they were all not very worried, given the obvious fact that Blanch was an easy-lay-me-on-my-back-please, good ol’ fashioned Southern slut. Sophia was busy making spaghetti sauce while Rose and Dorothy were eating cheese cake, and for the second week straight, drinking scotch.
“Hey, ma d-da-da you wanna know the truth about my feelings about you. I love you, and I’ll never send you to Shady Pines.”
“Thank you dear. If I could have a drink I would, but the doctor has warned me about my liver, you know.”
Rose smiled, “Back in St. Olef there were no such things as “homes” and even livers, aside from, well, chicken livers that I used to eat, but my daddy used to take fishing. Said they were great for bass….”
“Shut up Rose!” Dorothy interjected, to the audience’s delight.
“Sorry,” Rose said.
Sophia walked over with a spoon full of sauce and threw it at Rose, “Here, here’s a message from Sicily. Shut the fuck up! or we’ll blow your brains out.”
“Hey!” Rose protested in comic joy, actually. “How do you know that the Italians would say that to me?”
“Because that’s what they said to my brother who always told dumb fables and tales and other stories that don’t matter and are probably not true.”
And then Blanch walked in, her hair all messed up, her lipstick smeared, her shirt torn a bit.
“Who, big surprise!” Sophia said.
“No, it’s not what it looks like, and this nasty spermatozoa ain’t what it seems either. It’s colgate toothpaste. “Big Pete” and me spent eight our repairing some woman’s toilet. And then he had the indignity to expect a kiss from me? Of course not, I just gave him a quick blow job, but that was it.”
“Like I said, surprise surprise.” Sophia retorted.
Rose smiled, picked up her drink and said, “well here’s to predictability. Kind of like the laugh-lines on our shows!”
“Hey, don’t say that?” Dorothy said.
“Why not?” Rose said.
“Because that would ruin…oh, never mind. I’ve got a date tomorrow with Bernie Rubble.”
“Bernie Rubble?” Sophia said.
Then Blanch said, “Bernie Rubble, hey, I knew you were working with apes livin’ in the stone age, but that’s taking it a bit too far.”
Dorothy took her last bite of cake, got up with her empty plate, and said to Blanch, “He’s better than Big Top Pee Wee, the man’s a lawyer, credentials..possibly a judge some day. I like him, I don’t care anyway.”
“Really?” Sophia said, “Well I guess I got some place nice to live if you two get married.”
“’Shady Pines’ mean anything?” Dorothy said as she put the plate in the sink.
Then Rose smiled and said, “You know girls, we all have a lot of fun, we always have.”
“What’s your point, Rose?” Sophia said.
“I got cancer,” Rose said.