Warning for those not familiar with the book or movie, spoilers ahead! And if you haven't read or seen Fight Club, why are you reading this?
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Sybil. The Three Faces Of Eve.
I'm a goddamned movie of the week.
Split personality disorder. My subconscious created an alternate being because I was unhappy with my lot in life. My job was unfulfilling. I wasn't rich or good looking. I had no real friends. I tried to better myself with material possessions, and almost had something with self help groups, but when those failed...
Enter Tyler.
He downsized my life. I learned to survive with just the basics. His philosophy became mine. I discovered the thrill of getting the shit kicked out of me. Good times.
Now I've had time to think, locked away in this starch government facility. They tell me there won't be any criminal charges because I hadn't full mental responsibility at the time. I'm not sure if this place is any better than prison anyway. Less rape here I guess, so that's a plus.
They got me on this medicine now. Three pills a day to keep the imaginary friends away. I get punished with cotton mouth and drowsiness simply because I couldn't find a hobby to distract myself from my boring existence.
Hobbies are mucho importante here. They constantly remind you of this. It keeps the mind from destructive thinking. So I do a lot of knitting now. Yeah, yuk it up. I'll have you know that ex football player Rosey Grier was a knitter, and he's not even mentally unstable.
On the plus side, I can open up a scarf shop if they ever let me out. But that's something they don't like to talk about. They're scared for my safety. They say Tyler did a lot of damage. But, seeing as we never hurt anyone, I don't there's much chance of running into a psycho with a Charles Bronson thirst for vengeance.
Did I mention no one visits anymore? My parents came down once. Dad patted me on the back. Mom cried. End of family support. I don't blame them though. But Marla - I don't know why she stopped coming. She writes to me though. There's a stack of her letters in the corner. I never read them. Yes, it's childish of me, but I always thought that she was the sort of girl who would enjoy having a boyfriend in the loony bin. Guess I was wrong.
198. That's how many ceiling tiles there are in this room. Same amount as the last time I counted.
When I first came here, I tried to get better. Now, I can't remember why I even bothered. Maybe it was wrong of me to kill Tyler. He would have a reason for why I should get better. Maybe if I stopped taking my medication, he'd come back and rescue me..
End.
******
Sybil. The Three Faces Of Eve.
I'm a goddamned movie of the week.
Split personality disorder. My subconscious created an alternate being because I was unhappy with my lot in life. My job was unfulfilling. I wasn't rich or good looking. I had no real friends. I tried to better myself with material possessions, and almost had something with self help groups, but when those failed...
Enter Tyler.
He downsized my life. I learned to survive with just the basics. His philosophy became mine. I discovered the thrill of getting the shit kicked out of me. Good times.
Now I've had time to think, locked away in this starch government facility. They tell me there won't be any criminal charges because I hadn't full mental responsibility at the time. I'm not sure if this place is any better than prison anyway. Less rape here I guess, so that's a plus.
They got me on this medicine now. Three pills a day to keep the imaginary friends away. I get punished with cotton mouth and drowsiness simply because I couldn't find a hobby to distract myself from my boring existence.
Hobbies are mucho importante here. They constantly remind you of this. It keeps the mind from destructive thinking. So I do a lot of knitting now. Yeah, yuk it up. I'll have you know that ex football player Rosey Grier was a knitter, and he's not even mentally unstable.
On the plus side, I can open up a scarf shop if they ever let me out. But that's something they don't like to talk about. They're scared for my safety. They say Tyler did a lot of damage. But, seeing as we never hurt anyone, I don't there's much chance of running into a psycho with a Charles Bronson thirst for vengeance.
Did I mention no one visits anymore? My parents came down once. Dad patted me on the back. Mom cried. End of family support. I don't blame them though. But Marla - I don't know why she stopped coming. She writes to me though. There's a stack of her letters in the corner. I never read them. Yes, it's childish of me, but I always thought that she was the sort of girl who would enjoy having a boyfriend in the loony bin. Guess I was wrong.
198. That's how many ceiling tiles there are in this room. Same amount as the last time I counted.
When I first came here, I tried to get better. Now, I can't remember why I even bothered. Maybe it was wrong of me to kill Tyler. He would have a reason for why I should get better. Maybe if I stopped taking my medication, he'd come back and rescue me..
End.