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21. Shit.

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» Asking people out

What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this..?
Early November last year I was sectioned and admitted into an adolescent psychiatric hospital. To put it fairly bluntly and not reveal too much, I'm not just a few sandwiches short, I've forgotten the hamper and the picnic can frankly be buggered for all I care, I have elephants to ride and a country to rule I'll have you know.

Anyway, I was wrenched out of my natural environment in a suicidal state (thanks in part to the ex, daughter of Satan that at 5'5" terrified my hulking form with her moodswings) and manhandled by the oink into a nice little semi-secure unit somewhere in Greater Manchester via a hospital waiting room (approx 15 hours, no bed, one room about 6 paces by 5, a plastic chair for comfort and two coppers outside the door, yours for just the small one-time payment of your sanity!) and a secure shithole overnight - for being unable to move my arms and therefore jumped on by four coppers (2525, I know you're out there somewhere and I will never forget your collar dog you scumbag cunt - IPCC are shit, mob justice isn't, wall revolution etc).

Life goes on, I make a few friends in my new home and begin to fall into the routine of things - there was even a school, which was handy to allay boredom but fairly irritating as it was compulsory (at 17). My observation order (section 2) ran its 28-day course and I decided to stay as an in-patient to work out what the deal with my head was - at some point anyway, I distracted my psychs when they asked questions, maintained a facade of bubbly happiness and carried on keeping everything all bottled up. It got to mid-January, as my growing tendency towards misogyny began to gather steam, when I met K.

I remember sitting in the lounge in the afternoon next to my mate D (an old hand at this lark and a jolly decent young chap) and seeing K for the first time. A vision of radiance in a baggy hoody. I told D that he could fuck right off or he could help me, his choice. She'd been admitted a few hours beforehand, knew no-one and was looking rather sheepish. I smiled at her and she smiled back, albeit whilst looking for the nearest exit. I pointed at Token Mentalist from my answer here and made a wanker sign on the sly as a heads-up. K then took this as me just being generally horrible and abusive and gave me a filthy look, until my knight in shining armour D having seen all this shouted across the room "NO REALLY, SHE'S A PROPER CUNT!"

His way with words salvaged the moment - she laughed and we all continued to chat; I was infatuated, and probably made a bit of a prick of myself, the exact topics of conversation now escape me. We were allowed mobile phones without a camera, and so D swiftly (at my unspoken request... a simple shift of the eyebrow was all at took) got her number as a "giz a text if you need anything"... which I then robbed off his phone, "for, y'know, just in case like."

That evening, after lights out, I was texting K for what seemed like hours. We arranged that she would come to my room in the morning (strictly Not Allowed, regardless of gender of occupants, however I neglected to mention this) for general chatting and to give me a chance to show off my muscular form (read: emaciated, 11 stone, 6 foot 8 wreck... actually probably closer to 12st by this point) in just a pair of pyjama bottoms...

Suitably impressed by the next morning's display, we were practically inseparable until I left the unit in April. We have now been together almost 12 months (both discharged for the last 6), are gradually recovering together (with a few hiccups), have never argued once, and are madly hopelessly in love with each other. I always say the sanest girl I've ever met was in a psych ward. Just shows how something good can come from such a shit situation.

There's a lot more to the story than this (you'd be surprised what you can get up to with a mischievous mind in hospital) that'll possibly be posted in future QOTWs - one week in that place is seriously a lifetime of the answers, I've got six months under my belt.

How does this relate? I've never explicitly asked her out. Technically we're just really good friends.

Sorry, no pun, and the doctor won't prescribe me any length jokes.

PS It's late, I apologise for any grammar/ spelling mistakes.
(Thu 17th Dec 2009, 8:47, More)

» School Days

I have the pleasure
Of currently attending a school for teenagers with mental health issues (I'm 17, but what with me being an in-patient at the unit in question I am lumped in with the rest). You think your school was funny?

We have the small squeaky little twat* from hell, who squeals with delight at anything to do with fairies, Disney or kittens (OK fair enough I too let out a little bit of wee at kitties) and howls like a banshee whenever things don't go her way. Probably weighs all of about six stone soaking wet, roughly five foot tall and has picked a fight with me on no less than five occasions - I am 6'8". Has also punched me in the face. Hilarity level: 8/10.

The token mentalist is a sixteen-year old black girl who is indescribably rude and generally horrid to all and sundry. Regularly pushes people aside, either talks to people like shit or totally blanks them and jumps queues (personal pet hate - as in, really can't stand it). She hit me around the head with a chair once for no reason whatsoever, and then screamed at me for having no manners and being in her way. Hilarity level: 7/10.

But the icing on the cake shall be known simply as Sleepy. He's a genuinely lovely lad, wonderfully funny and pretty wicked at footy. Due to his medication, he likes to sleep a lot and moves at a relative snail's pace. Regularly lies down on the floor in lessons and drifts off. Has brilliant ways of winding the people who are dickheads* up, such as following them round flicking the back of their head, throwing wet paper towels at them and once poured a whole (plastic, no less) bottle of milk over squeaky twat's head, causing her to release a staccato series of shrieks that has left me with permanent hearing damage. Hilarity? Off the scale.

Apologies for lack of real funny. I don't really feel comfortable going into full-on examples at the moment, lest somebody stab me to death with a pair of round-ended scissors.

Length? Three months and counting, one of them under duress.

*Anyone who is about to badger me with "It isn't their fault, they have problems" - Get fucked. They'd be cunts without any issues. Shut up. I'm nuts. I'll kill you.
(Thu 29th Jan 2009, 20:33, More)

» Evil Pranks

Not so much pranks
As a long-term investigation into the placebo effect that I've been conducting for approximately 5 years.

A good 90% of my mates, like myself, get their fun through the consumption of various chemicals. Things I have done include:

Giving out lines of coffee whitener/ baking soda, rolling 3-skinner cigs and passing them round, sorting my mate some Valium which were really paracetamol, same principle as previous but with ecstasy/ flu pills and the piéce de résistance, printing designs onto and then meticulously perforating a piece of A4 sketch paper so that it resembled acid.

The funny thing is, I have yet to receive any complaints, and on several occasions have been congratulated on my procurement of exceedingly fine substances.

I'm a cunt, yes, but there's nothing funnier than seeing your mate's sister "coked out of her mind" on baking soda, and your mate himself tripping the light fantastic with unsprayed blotter.
(Wed 19th Dec 2007, 17:26, More)

» Evil Pranks

I was a cruel child
When I was but a wee hypnoticme of about six or seven, I ran screaming and crying into my parents' bedroom, my hand resembling a scene from the director's cut of Saw III. Cue usual early morning "fuck off" from father, and copious shrill screams from my mother as she dragged me downstairs, tearing through cupboards as she searched for a towel to stem the rather profuse bleeding from my deathly digit damage.

It was a good couple of minutes of frantic, panicking parent before she noticed the tomato ketchup five feet to her left where I had (in a weird junior homage to my future stoned self) forgetfully left it on the worktop. Cue hypnoticmum grabbing the stumps of my ring and little fingers, only to find them intact and in fact curled into my hand.

I still bear the scars of that punishment to this day.

No apologies for length or width of hypnoticdad's belt marks on my arse.
(Mon 17th Dec 2007, 10:46, More)

» Professions I Hate

Warning: Daily Mail-esque rant abound
I have a large amount of ill-feeling towards professional dole monkeys. Half of the people I left school with are in this category, and haven't had a job in the nearly 4 years since we left. I work damned hard to make less in a week than Kyle and Bekki, sat on their arse drinking Special Brew and excreting sprogs.

No, really. I have recently moved into new digs, so off I toddled to the 'One Stop Shop' we have in my hometown to make it easier for these cunts to defraud the system in the (fairly reasonable) hope that young lad + living alone + low wage = housing benefit, or at least working tax credit.

Sadly, I was not eligible for fuck all. Apparently if you are 18, male, and work full-time, 50 quid a week is enough to pay your rent, bills, feed you and still provide enough excess cash to get the bus to work. Let me just re-emphasise that; 50 quid.

I looked up what I would be eligible for was I not working:

JSA: £50/pw
Local Housing Allowance: £55/pw
Income Support: £50/pw
Council Tax Benefit: £15/pw
(My Wage - £170/pw)

Not to mention the various 'Allowances' one can get for travelling to dole interviews, etc. Really boils my piss.

I understand that some people are genuinely unable to work. Fine, this is aimed at the can't be arsed brigade. But in my view, you should either be learning or earning if you're my age.

So to sum up: Dole rats, you annoy me.

Length? 35 Hours per week.
(Wed 2nd Jun 2010, 12:27, More)
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