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.~