George Washington woke me up this morning. Screamed right in my ear, he did; told me the British were coming. I about shit my drawers.
What a rude awakening!
Charlie here. Charlie-The-Crazy. Yah, that's me all over. Maybe it's 'cause I'm so mucked up in the head. George Washington is but one of the many voices I hear talking inside my head: he's usually the loudest out of all my voices. Insistent. Demanding. Annoying as all get-out!
Sometimes I wish I had me a gun so I could blow my god blessed brains out; I hate living like this!! Ain't no fun having schitzophrenia, y'know??
People look at me, treat me like a piece of crapola. They think I don't got the good sense that God gave a goose. Maybe I don't, but it, my mucked up mind, has kept me from getting into several bad scrapes! I may be crazy, but I am definitely not stupid!!
Life remains 'bout the same since I last wrote. Still strugglin' to survive, and prayin', hopin', that someone will cut me a break by givin' me a li'l play money, just so's I can get somethin' in my stomach. I'm so hungry my stomach thinks my throat's been cut! My stomach is always growlin'; it's givin' me competition with George Washington, Napoleon, George Bush, and Ricky Martin. They also live in my head; I hear their voices as well, but George ... good ol' George W. ... is the one I hear most often. He keeps me hoppin'!
Thank God for Medusa! Medusa Jones is the best thing that could have ever happened to me. She treats me real good; she's almost like my second mama. She takes care of me, makes sure I have all I need. She takes me to the clinic, for my appointments, but I never stay; doctors and psychologists, they always make me nervous. Real nervous! I don't like people pickin' at my head!!
Never have, never will. And the meds they'd given me the past turns me into a living version of the walking dead ... a Zombo ..., so I don't do nothin' with them; I just try to go on without it, y'know? And besides, George Washington and all my friends and Medusa (plus the other homeless people I know 'round here), they take care of me. So I'm survivin'.
One sad thing, though: I hardly see Medusa as much: she got herself a place! She no longer homeless. She and several other street people got into halfway housing; they're becomin' functional to society. Some are going to school, some are working, making the money. Me, I can't work: too mucked up in the head; get disability, but it never lasts long 'cause I look to the brown bottle as my religion. That's what saved me. If I didn't have my booze, I'd been dead long ago!
Well, George Bush is talking to me, so I'd best see what he wants. George Washington is there, too. I will go for now; will write in here again. Don't really like writing about myself, but I gotta do it. Stupid psycho doctor's idea, not mine. Maybe I can make some sense of my jumbled up mind, but from reading what I wrote, I highly doubt that. I'm still as crazy as I ever was. Damn schitzoid mind!! O, how I hate thee!!
~Charlie-The-Crazy. :(~To be continued.~