So it's finally happened. Here I am, in the loony bin. I forgot the PC term for it now. Neptune, how did it come to this?
They told me to keep a daily diary. That it'd help me sort things out. Yeah, right. I actually already keep a diary. But will they let me go home and get it? Nooooo.
What to write about? Well, why don't I start with how I ended up in this stupid place? So there I was, minding my own business, right? Sculpting a lovely portrayal of yours truly. It was beautiful, take my word for it. Like, you could put it in a garden. That's how nice it was. But back to the story.
SpongeBob comes in out of nowhere. How he gets in the house sometimes I'll never figure out. Maybe he has a key and I don't know it. Wouldn't surprise me. Come to think of it, he can be quite the stalker. I'm going off on a tangent again.
So he comes in, all excited, right? Says he has a present for me. I don't want it but he gives it to me anyway. And you know what it is? A rock. Yeah. He says it has an uncanny resemblance to me. So much so that it was freaking him out and he just HAD to show me. I didn't see it, but whatever. Why give that as a present? I will never figure that guy out.
Barnacles. I'll finish this entry later. I'm getting a terrible headache just thinking so much about that yellow idiot.
Great. I just learned they don't allow aspirin in this place. It's gonna be a long stay.
Back to my story. Let's see, so SpongeBob gives me that stupid rock. Except, here's where the twist comes in… yes, I was tricking you. I don't know who the "you" is here, as I'm really writing to myself, but whatever. It wasn't a rock at all. It was a big sack of poison sea urchin eggs. And they exploded all over my house. And ME.
Does it make you crazy to run around your house screaming at your dunce-of-a-neighbor and smashing things in a frenzy to escape your itchy tormentors? Apparently so, because fish in white coats came and put me in a padded van.
What's so crazy about that? You'd probably do the same. Don't judge me unless you've been in that situation. And I know you haven't so clam up.
Neptune… who am I writing to? I'm arguing with myself. I should stop now.
I think I hate everyone here.
The orderlies don't listen to me. I keep telling them I'm itching uncontrollably from the sea urchins, but they think it's some kind of nervous twitch. Thus, my request for anti-itch ointment gets unheeded. Simpletons.
The other patients here… well, let's just say they're trying my patience. Get it? PATIENCE? Haha. I amuse myself. Why does no one ever hear my witty puns? Glad I'm writing it down. Next time one of them bothers me, I'm going to say that to them.
Gotta go. They just called lights out.
No, it's not bedtime. There's only one light in my room and it just went out. Sorry if this last bit's unintelligible.
So SpongeBob came to visit today. He brought me a cake. The second they stopped watching, he whispered that the cake had a nail file in it. I was like, WHAT? This is the nuthouse, not prison. Idiot.
He just kept blabbering and blabbering and blabbering. Why don't they put HIM in here? He's the one with issues. I mean, he has OCD at his job, panic attacks behind the wheel, and… well… is being incredibly annoying a mental condition?
He really seems to miss me. I don't blame him. I'd miss me too if I was gone. But, barnacles, he's still right next to me talking. I thought writing in my diary would be a hint for him to leave but no, he's still here. Oblivious.
Pardon me while I show him the door. By chucking him out of it.
They're encouraging me to take part in these "group activities." I picked art because, well, let's face it. I'm the art master. I can out-paint, sculpt, or draw any of these losers.
I go there and the teacher… Neptune, where did they find this moron? He didn't know wondrous art (mine) when it was sitting right there in his class! I painted one superb painting of myself, and he practically snubbed it. Said it wasn't what we're supposed to be painting.
He said to paint our "happy place." So what if I wasn't painting verdure gardens with waterfalls or serene beach settings with sunsets in the background? Anyone can paint that stuff. How many people can say they've painted the beauty that is… Squidward Tentacles? With a fez hat. Don't ask about the fez, it was kind of a spur-of-the-moment type thing.
Tartar sauce… I'm still SO ITCHY! I caught myself rubbing my back up and down a padded wall. A PADDED WALL. That's way too soft to do anything! I am getting desperate.
SpongeBob came back today, and this time he brought Patrick. Cue a bunch of dumb questions from Patrick about this place. He kept thinking it was a library. I have no idea why, I have yet to see any books.
I told them about my itching problem. I did that hoping that if I was unfortunate to have SpongeBob return to visit again, he'd bring some anti-itch cream or something. But instead they dog-piled me, scratching all over me, thinking they're doing me a service. Laughing it up too; it's all a game to them. But of course, they didn't do it in the right places, so now I have a bunch of scratches all over me.
MY KINGDOM FOR SOME OINTMENT. Now both anti-itch and anti-bacterial.
Have I mentioned the food here stinks? I mean, seriously, it's a small step up from gruel. I think it IS gruel, but spray-painted and formed into different colors and shapes. Ugh. We're supposed to mentally recover by putting that garbage into our bodies? We need brain food. What's brain food? Oh. Right. Fish.
Guess who returned today. The bane of my existence. Okay, I have a lot of banes. But this bane is SpongeBob again.
Huh. You ever say a word too many times and then it loses its meaning for a while? I think I just did that with "bane."
Back to SpongeBob. This time he dragged Mr. Krabs along. That old man doesn't always take things seriously. He told me this was all probably a result of scurvy.
Yeah, right. I still get my daily fruit smoothie, thank you very much.
And yet again… SpongeBob came to see me. And this time he brought Sandy. I swear, he's going to end up bringing all his friends to see me.
She went on and on in this technical jargon about what's supposedly wrong with my brain. Nothing's wrong, all right? Um, sorry, but last I checked you were a rocket scientist. Not a psychiatrist. Different stuff, okay?
Psssh. Land creatures.
Yeah, so they got a hold of my diary. Can you believe that? I thought this was private. My innermost thoughts, recorded here in black and white. Nope. Free for the world to see, apparently.
Their comments? Too negative. I'm supposed to write more "happy thoughts" from now on. Sorry, I thought this was MY diary? I write what happens during the day, and lately, IT HASN'T BEEN HAPPY.
Happy is me at home playing Clari (beautifully I must add). Happy is me painting without being stifled by some so-called art teacher, or reading an interpretive dance magazine. Happy thoughts for me involve things like bath beads, a warm tub, and Mozart playing softly in the background. Not stuck here in a tiny room!
So they took my pen away. Said it was too "dangerous." Pointy end. Heh.
They also said no more writing in the diary. It was making me think too many unpleasant things, they said. Well, I'm showing them.
You've probably noticed at this point the different ink color. And incredibly sloppy, large words. That's because I've been forced to use my own ink to write this. Yes, I've been reduced to finger-painting.
It's funny. I never use my ink. Guess it only comes out in a moment of psyche-shattering despair.
I woke up today to a fish knocking on my door. He opens it and lo and behold, he says with a big grin, "You're free to go!"
I was so happy. Like, "SpongeBob and Patrick are out of town" happy. I was practically jumping for joy.
And then he says, "APRIL FOOLS!"
Looking back, it's not that surprising I fell for it. They don't allow calendars here either.
I know I came into this place saying I wasn't crazy, but I think I'm starting to become it now. The itching has only become worse. I'm stuck in a small room for most of the day, or dealing with lunatics who mumble all day to themselves about Neptune knows what. I've taken up a new hobby in lieu of my others back home… it's called ramming your head against the wall. You should try it, it's fun. Especially if you aim for that one place where the padding is pealing off the wall and a nail sticks out.
SOOOOOO ITCHY!! MUST ROLL AROUND CONSTANTLY!! THIS IS HARD TO WRITE WITH INK!!
Ahhh. It's good to be back home.
Yes, that's right. Back home to my lovely Easter Island Head. Released, fully recovered they said. Only took over a month of painful electro-shock therapy. And a bunch of pills. I don't know what they are, their names are about twenty syllables long, but wow are they nice.
They said they found me rolling around like crazy and bashing my head against the wall. I don't remember that. Actually, I don't remember much at all. Wow these pills are nice.
For some reason SpongeBob and Patrick thought it would be a good idea to draw hopscotch squares all over the outside of my house. So they are jumping all around on it, screaming and playing with rappel lines… not to mention attracting a bunch of people rooting for them out in my front yard.
Where did SpongeBob get that egg sack? I think I wanna go back. At least the padded room was quiet.