When I first came to this loony bin, I tried to keep an open mind about everything I was forced to do. Not hungry? Eat anyway. Not tired? Get in bed and count sheep. Don't feel much like weaving any baskets today? In order to maintain the basic rights of life and the pursuit of happiness (our liberty, if you've forgotten, has already been unceremoniously usurped because we're bat$h!t crazy) as outlined by Thomas Jeffersonin the Declaration of Independence, we must produce our quota of baskets, which are probably being billed as artistic creations by the mentally challenged and sold for big bucks to wealthy do-gooders. Not in the mood for dancing? That is where I must draw the line.
Yesterday, while my fellow inmates and I were in the throes of forced mirth-making otherwise known as recreational therapy, the chief recreational therapist [I'm surely not the first person to point this out, but have you ever noticed that if a space is strategically inserted between the e and r , instead of therapist, it reads the rapist.
This is altogether fitting, as therapists rape the minds of their subjects using any means available to them] announced out of the blue that we would all perform a little dance. Then she played a recording. It was a most infamous recording, I might add. The song was the base, coarse, ignoble, abject [I recognize redundancy when I write it, but I'm trying to make a point of just how utterly plebian this song is] "Cotton-Eyed Joe." This presented for me a conflict of sorts. I generally try to cooperate with the mind rapists around here in order to avoid the loss of any privileges, but there are levels to which I will not stoop, and there are dances, four to be exact, that I will not do: 4. YMCA; 3. The Macarena; 2. The Chicken Dance; 1. Cotton-Eyed Joe.
If you're from The United Kingdom or some similarly blessed locale that hasn't been corrupted by "Cotton-Eyed Joe," you could probably catch a quick video of it on YouTube, but I must warn you that after viewing the video, you'll probably have an irresistible urge to scrub yourself with antibacterial soap under water so hot as to sterilize your skin. It's a crepy-crawly "Deliverance" kind of song. I'd sooner imitate Lady Godiva by riding a horse nude down main street - and I don't particularly like horses-- than dance to "Cotton-Eyed Joe." While I can be difficult at times, I understand the need for the recreational rapist not to have the inmate population scorning her activities; I politely said I had a headache and needed to sit this one out in another room. I wasn't totally lying, as I did have a really bad headache, but I would have tried to stick it out if the activity had been anything except one of my "refuse to do under all circumstances, as in even if a gun was pointed at my head" dances.
Instead of either accepting my self-excusal at face value or accepting that I found her choice of activity too lame even for my basically undiscriminating standards, the recreational rapist dragged me past the nurse's station, pushed me into my room, took my computer and phone, and closed the door. Then she called the director, who was supposed to be off all weekend.
The director took his time getting to the hospital, as was his right since his time was technically supposed to be his own this weekend, but he eventually showed up about four hours ago. He came in, asked what the problem was, then said he would phone my parents to ask what they wanted him to do about it. He came back a few minutes later with a syringe. I was afraid it might be a psychotropic drug, but he told me it would stop my headache without upsetting my stomach. Tylenol doesn't usually work for me when I have a headache; Ibuprofen upsets my stomach, and aspirin, which I can't take because of Reye Sybdrome concerns, presumably would upset my stomach as well.
After he gave ne the shot, the director said my parents told him to give me something for my headache and to take me home with him for the weekend. He told me to bring my entire suitcase so that I could do my laundry while I was there. On the way out of the ward, he made a point of asking the recrational rapist for my computer and phone, and handing them both to me in front of her. He probably didn'y earn any brownie points with his staff, but maybe the ruder ones will stop messing with me.
I slept off the headache for a couple of hours in a comfortable bed. The director's wife is taking their daughter and me to get our hair trimmed and our nails done in a few minutes. We're watching movies tonight. If i feel good tomorrow, I get to go hurdling and diving.
Note to the Pseudos: I have a really annoying habit of starting series and not finishing them, but I promise to get back to your series very soon.