Okay, I'm not sure how this will go over, just something I wrote in my
boring "study hall" class when I didn't have anything else to do…I would
like reviews to let me know if I should even attempt to continue this story
or remove it from existence, heh.
Obviously these characters don't belong to me, it they did, I'd marry Tyler Durdan *drools* gah, I'd jump him no matter what he looks like, and I'm not entirely referring to the movie here, more just the characters from the book itself, one of the best books I've read in a long time; thanks Chuck!
****************
'I am not a unique snowflake.
'I am not my khaki pants.
'I am not my Mercedes Benz.
They always run through my mind. Always. Tyler's words, controlling my brain, always. I tried the whole white, padded room with the little blue and red pills. I tried the solitary confinement. Tried the therapy.
'You are not what your therapist wants to make you.'
But there they are, always. I constantly hear his voice, his deep, but soft, voice which seems to put me at ease, and yet frustrate me so. I liked the solitary confinement.
'No you didn't, you liked me'
The people were always nice to me, even when I tried to stab one of them, or so I was told later. I have no recollection of such an activity. I liked playing solitaire for hours on end while sitting on the only furniture in the room; a little white cot, you know, the kind which look like a stretcher, complete with the straps to tie you down with. Everything I did had to be solitaire, and I loved it.
'No, you miss beating the shit out of perfect blondes, and you know it.'
I have, reluctantly, learned to ignore him, however, some things are meant to happen. You could call it fate if you wanted to, I wouldn't though. Fate is too sappy of a word, and besides, it means nothing. Just something civilization made up so they have even more things to blame their problems on instead of themselves. That's the only thing about this place that bothers me the most. Anything wrong with a person is never their fault, its always re-directed, or forgotten. This one therapist, the first one I had when I came here, was like that.
"Now, I understand your situation," He had said, "and I want you to know that its not your fault. You are a bright man, but unfortunately had some bad times, that's all. But you can turn it around to make yourself better and prove you're not really like that."
"And what if I am?" I asked him, to see just what kind of bullshit he'd feed me next.
"But you're not, and over the next few months, because that's what it will take, you will realize this and we will discover what overcame you."
"So, in other words, you're saying I'm crazy, and you're going to probe me until I crack and spew out any and all 'misfortunes' that have ever befallen me." The therapist, Mr. Jackson, only looked calmly at me, you know, that look someone gives to a five year old throwing a tantrum. I wanted throw my fist into his jaw to see if he'd still look at me the same. "Then, after you 'analyze' my whole life, you will determine that my crazy 'episode' was nothing more then someone reaching out for attention because of the abandonment I feel from the parents who left me on the steps of a stranger's house, or because when I was twelve my dog and only companion was killed by a car, or maybe it was the fact that I never got a girlfriend until I was 20. Then, after all that analyzing, you will sit down with a council to declare me 'cured' when, in fact, all that has taken place is I told you a lot of lies and exaggerated stories in exchange for the drugs which put me in such a euphoric state, I could care less if I lie in my white room and only eat mashed potatoes and mystery meat."
After a long silence, and after Mr. Jackson was finished writing on the clean paper on his white clipboard, the therapist said to me, while pointing the tip of his pen at one of the many things he scribbled down, "Tell me more about how your parents left you." He didn't even listen nor catch that what I was trying to do was insult his work.
"They never did." I explained, voice slowly raising with the anger and unprecedented hatred I felt for this man all of a sudden. "I never had a dog, and my first girlfriend I got when I was 16!" The therapist wrote all that down and I only got angrier, "What the fuck are you writing? That not only am I crazy, but I am a chronic liar as well?" I laughed because his face still remained its' same placid self. "You know, you would be a really attractive man if you'd only smile." Not that I meant it, he was bald, wrinkly and old, probably couldn't fight worth shit.
There I go again, measuring up a man by how he could fight, damn.
Saying that comment I expected him to liven up a little, maybe give me a queer scowl, but I was rewarded nothing but the same dull expression; his face turned downward towards the clipboard, eyebrows creeping over the bi- focal glasses sitting upon his bulbous nose, and his eyes peering from behind them, looking larger then they really were. His forehead looked like freshly cultivated farmland; rows after rows of rolled skin. I don't think he had any hair on his head because it was all transferred into his ears and eyebrows. I always thought of this when I looked at him and wondered where else the hair might have gone, imagining a thick carpet of white-gray hairs blanketing his back. I would always shudder.
But that's enough about Mr. Jackson; I think you get the picture. When I wasn't being forced to talk to him that one hour of my day, I was too busy being happy. I loved playing in the gardens of dandelions and clovers during our "outside time." After being in a little room all day, other then the visit with the therapist, the outside sky never seemed bluer, the rain never tasted sweeter, the wind never enveloped you the same delightful way before. I never had problems sleeping. In fact, I couldn't get enough of it. I never felt so at home, at peace, so happy before in my life, that place was heaven for me; or maybe it was the drugs, who knows.
Also, the benefits of being so solitaire is the return to humanity and the utter love you feel for them. Once again, maybe it was the drugs, but the first time Marla visited me it had been a month since I had seen her and I was genuinely joyous. She, of course, was just Marla, commenting on how shitty I looked and how she couldn't wait till I got out, so she had to sleep with some prick she picked up off the streets, but none of it bothered me because it was Marla. Marla here, with me.
Of course Tyler despised her and kept trying to yell at her through me, but I wouldn't allow him to do that. I finally learned how to keep him to myself, and I stopped trying to make people understand that I'm not crazy, I didn't make up Tyler, that Tyler was really another person, or entity, or whatever you would call it, within me. I told people I had just gone temporary insane. But did I believe that? I started to, until yesterday night.
Obviously these characters don't belong to me, it they did, I'd marry Tyler Durdan *drools* gah, I'd jump him no matter what he looks like, and I'm not entirely referring to the movie here, more just the characters from the book itself, one of the best books I've read in a long time; thanks Chuck!
****************
'I am not a unique snowflake.
'I am not my khaki pants.
'I am not my Mercedes Benz.
They always run through my mind. Always. Tyler's words, controlling my brain, always. I tried the whole white, padded room with the little blue and red pills. I tried the solitary confinement. Tried the therapy.
'You are not what your therapist wants to make you.'
But there they are, always. I constantly hear his voice, his deep, but soft, voice which seems to put me at ease, and yet frustrate me so. I liked the solitary confinement.
'No you didn't, you liked me'
The people were always nice to me, even when I tried to stab one of them, or so I was told later. I have no recollection of such an activity. I liked playing solitaire for hours on end while sitting on the only furniture in the room; a little white cot, you know, the kind which look like a stretcher, complete with the straps to tie you down with. Everything I did had to be solitaire, and I loved it.
'No, you miss beating the shit out of perfect blondes, and you know it.'
I have, reluctantly, learned to ignore him, however, some things are meant to happen. You could call it fate if you wanted to, I wouldn't though. Fate is too sappy of a word, and besides, it means nothing. Just something civilization made up so they have even more things to blame their problems on instead of themselves. That's the only thing about this place that bothers me the most. Anything wrong with a person is never their fault, its always re-directed, or forgotten. This one therapist, the first one I had when I came here, was like that.
"Now, I understand your situation," He had said, "and I want you to know that its not your fault. You are a bright man, but unfortunately had some bad times, that's all. But you can turn it around to make yourself better and prove you're not really like that."
"And what if I am?" I asked him, to see just what kind of bullshit he'd feed me next.
"But you're not, and over the next few months, because that's what it will take, you will realize this and we will discover what overcame you."
"So, in other words, you're saying I'm crazy, and you're going to probe me until I crack and spew out any and all 'misfortunes' that have ever befallen me." The therapist, Mr. Jackson, only looked calmly at me, you know, that look someone gives to a five year old throwing a tantrum. I wanted throw my fist into his jaw to see if he'd still look at me the same. "Then, after you 'analyze' my whole life, you will determine that my crazy 'episode' was nothing more then someone reaching out for attention because of the abandonment I feel from the parents who left me on the steps of a stranger's house, or because when I was twelve my dog and only companion was killed by a car, or maybe it was the fact that I never got a girlfriend until I was 20. Then, after all that analyzing, you will sit down with a council to declare me 'cured' when, in fact, all that has taken place is I told you a lot of lies and exaggerated stories in exchange for the drugs which put me in such a euphoric state, I could care less if I lie in my white room and only eat mashed potatoes and mystery meat."
After a long silence, and after Mr. Jackson was finished writing on the clean paper on his white clipboard, the therapist said to me, while pointing the tip of his pen at one of the many things he scribbled down, "Tell me more about how your parents left you." He didn't even listen nor catch that what I was trying to do was insult his work.
"They never did." I explained, voice slowly raising with the anger and unprecedented hatred I felt for this man all of a sudden. "I never had a dog, and my first girlfriend I got when I was 16!" The therapist wrote all that down and I only got angrier, "What the fuck are you writing? That not only am I crazy, but I am a chronic liar as well?" I laughed because his face still remained its' same placid self. "You know, you would be a really attractive man if you'd only smile." Not that I meant it, he was bald, wrinkly and old, probably couldn't fight worth shit.
There I go again, measuring up a man by how he could fight, damn.
Saying that comment I expected him to liven up a little, maybe give me a queer scowl, but I was rewarded nothing but the same dull expression; his face turned downward towards the clipboard, eyebrows creeping over the bi- focal glasses sitting upon his bulbous nose, and his eyes peering from behind them, looking larger then they really were. His forehead looked like freshly cultivated farmland; rows after rows of rolled skin. I don't think he had any hair on his head because it was all transferred into his ears and eyebrows. I always thought of this when I looked at him and wondered where else the hair might have gone, imagining a thick carpet of white-gray hairs blanketing his back. I would always shudder.
But that's enough about Mr. Jackson; I think you get the picture. When I wasn't being forced to talk to him that one hour of my day, I was too busy being happy. I loved playing in the gardens of dandelions and clovers during our "outside time." After being in a little room all day, other then the visit with the therapist, the outside sky never seemed bluer, the rain never tasted sweeter, the wind never enveloped you the same delightful way before. I never had problems sleeping. In fact, I couldn't get enough of it. I never felt so at home, at peace, so happy before in my life, that place was heaven for me; or maybe it was the drugs, who knows.
Also, the benefits of being so solitaire is the return to humanity and the utter love you feel for them. Once again, maybe it was the drugs, but the first time Marla visited me it had been a month since I had seen her and I was genuinely joyous. She, of course, was just Marla, commenting on how shitty I looked and how she couldn't wait till I got out, so she had to sleep with some prick she picked up off the streets, but none of it bothered me because it was Marla. Marla here, with me.
Of course Tyler despised her and kept trying to yell at her through me, but I wouldn't allow him to do that. I finally learned how to keep him to myself, and I stopped trying to make people understand that I'm not crazy, I didn't make up Tyler, that Tyler was really another person, or entity, or whatever you would call it, within me. I told people I had just gone temporary insane. But did I believe that? I started to, until yesterday night.
