It's just gotta be one of the greatest miracles of modern psychiatry in our lifetime. Our new Poop Boy (now named Gumby, thanks to Peggy Sue) is just as sane and rational and coherent as anybody else in the Hive.
Ok, that's not really saying all that much. There's not really all that much sanity running rampant through the house these days. Let's just go with the fact that he's no longer playing with his bodily wastes or putting on any more floor shows.
It's kind of sad, really. He had a good audience response and could have worked it into a long run of the rubber rooms throughout the state. Another fine career cut short by those meddling pshrinks!
Gumby called me over to his cell door and told me all about how his father had passed away and he was having trouble dealing with that. The pshrink apparently told him to remember the good times and focus on those. So he told me all about going camping with his father when he was little and the good times they had. We chatted for a bit about camping gear and the choice between hauling a camp stove as opposed to just building a fire and the difference between gas lanterns and battery lights. Right before I left to get back to work we were discussing the mantles in the gas lanterns and what they were made of.
It left me shaking my head.
So he was calm. He was happy, or as happy as he could be wearing a kevlar smock anyway. He had good line of thought and sentence structure. He was ready to get back out and live his life again. Or so he said.
Me, I'm thinking there must be a loose wire in there somewhere. He has to have some sort of intermittent short that made him act the way he did. I can't wrap my brain around wanting to smear myself with feces and playing solo porn star for the camera as an appropriate response to grief. But then, I tend to internalize things like that.
I just hope nothing shorts him out again and he goes away. We have enough trouble dealing with the dipsnaps and door warriors here without cleaning up any poop. As entertaining as it is, it gets kind of old after awhile.
A report on grumpy me - *Forget about my husband; this is all about me. It's been a strange week of little things going wrong.* *A cap came off a tooth, a cap which can probably ...
18 hours ago