Chapter One:
Well I suppose I should start with the "illness". Or as my many doctors and psychyatrists (a.k.a.-conformists) call it, "all in her head". See, I have this problem were I find just about everything funny. Yes, this may sound great, but actually, it can cause a lot of problems. For example, say you're sitting in on an execution and you begin to laugh hysterically. Compleatly and utterly inapropriate right?
Too most "normal" people, yes very. But to me, that man having three-thousand volts of electricity sent through his body is hilarious. And no,
I don't just find horror and pain humorous. I'm not that sadistic. I also find little things funny. I see a child run and trip, hysterical.
A teacher talking about global warming, I just about choke from giggling so hard. Well, those weren't very good examples to support the fact that I'm not very sadistic. Oh well, I suppose I do find tense situations and suffering funny. But what can I do about it? A person can not help what's humorous to them.
When I was seven years old my mother could handle me no longer. So she simply dropped me off at, Meyer's Insane Asyllum with a note that briefly explained my "disorder" and drove off, leaving nothing but a small cloud of dust behind her. I remember watching her and cracking up. After about five minutes of giggles I began looking around. The walls of the Asyllum were an off-white color. All the doors and window frames were painted a similar but darker shade of white. There was no color anywhere on the building. Bored and unappealed I sat down on the dead grass below me. I just stayed there, watching the clouds pass by, a huge grin across my face.
When it started to get dark I figured I should go give someone the letter from my mother. As I started skipping up the front steps of the asyllum's stoop a man opened the front door. He was very stout and had wiry gray hair. He looked careless and tired as he scanned me up and down with his gigantic eyes. I snorted and slightly giggled. "This is-" I extended my right arm, note in hand, "for you." I tried hard not to lose it. The man simply stared at me for what seemed like hours. He took the paper from me.
"Yes, yes, I see," he mumbled as he read my mothers crooked hand writing, "...and your name" I Just sttod there watching him. It took me a good three minutes bfore I realized he was adressing me.
"Oh, it's Harlen Quincy." I said with perfect enunciation.
"What an odd name." he replied with no trace of emotion. I cleared my throat before I spoke again.
"Maybe to you it is"
"hmmm." We looked at eachother for quite some time before he spoke again. "follow me." was all he could say. Chuckling to myself, I quietly followed. This was my new start, my new life. Where everything would begin, at Meyer's home for the whack jobs.
Well I suppose I should start with the "illness". Or as my many doctors and psychyatrists (a.k.a.-conformists) call it, "all in her head". See, I have this problem were I find just about everything funny. Yes, this may sound great, but actually, it can cause a lot of problems. For example, say you're sitting in on an execution and you begin to laugh hysterically. Compleatly and utterly inapropriate right?
Too most "normal" people, yes very. But to me, that man having three-thousand volts of electricity sent through his body is hilarious. And no,
I don't just find horror and pain humorous. I'm not that sadistic. I also find little things funny. I see a child run and trip, hysterical.
A teacher talking about global warming, I just about choke from giggling so hard. Well, those weren't very good examples to support the fact that I'm not very sadistic. Oh well, I suppose I do find tense situations and suffering funny. But what can I do about it? A person can not help what's humorous to them.
When I was seven years old my mother could handle me no longer. So she simply dropped me off at, Meyer's Insane Asyllum with a note that briefly explained my "disorder" and drove off, leaving nothing but a small cloud of dust behind her. I remember watching her and cracking up. After about five minutes of giggles I began looking around. The walls of the Asyllum were an off-white color. All the doors and window frames were painted a similar but darker shade of white. There was no color anywhere on the building. Bored and unappealed I sat down on the dead grass below me. I just stayed there, watching the clouds pass by, a huge grin across my face.
When it started to get dark I figured I should go give someone the letter from my mother. As I started skipping up the front steps of the asyllum's stoop a man opened the front door. He was very stout and had wiry gray hair. He looked careless and tired as he scanned me up and down with his gigantic eyes. I snorted and slightly giggled. "This is-" I extended my right arm, note in hand, "for you." I tried hard not to lose it. The man simply stared at me for what seemed like hours. He took the paper from me.
"Yes, yes, I see," he mumbled as he read my mothers crooked hand writing, "...and your name" I Just sttod there watching him. It took me a good three minutes bfore I realized he was adressing me.
"Oh, it's Harlen Quincy." I said with perfect enunciation.
"What an odd name." he replied with no trace of emotion. I cleared my throat before I spoke again.
"Maybe to you it is"
"hmmm." We looked at eachother for quite some time before he spoke again. "follow me." was all he could say. Chuckling to myself, I quietly followed. This was my new start, my new life. Where everything would begin, at Meyer's home for the whack jobs.
