Post by dave on Jan 12, 2010 23:46:48 GMT -5
DAVID ELIJAH LARGO.
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* FEELS JUST LIKE WE'RE LOSING CONTROL.
and if you let go, then i'll let go tonight.[/center]
TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF.
" me? well i'm just one big bundle of joy all wrapped up in a neat little cradle with lots of funny little quirks not everybody i know seems to appreciate. their problem, not mine, but hi to you too! i'm david, call me dave, never davey or any other stupid variation that makes me sound like some poorly named pet 'cause i really hate those people that do that -- like calling your dog kevin; who calls their dog kevin? bleugh! freaks. so i was born on the fourth of july a good thirty four years ago and that's just so freakin' amazing that i'm like the oldest patient in here that you could just pee your pants right? i know i have!.. BAHA, your face is so priceless. but listen right, as a guy, i like girls most of the time, but y'know, i've never been one to turn down a good old romp with another male specimen as fine as mys--well, that's setting the standard a little high, but basically, when i'm high (on life, not drugs, you gutter-minded ass) i've had some run-ins with some guys and regardless of how much of it i regret or not, it's happened, so i'll let you just judge it as you will, 'cause i sure as fuckin' hell ain't putting no other label than STRAIGHT on my ass, but fuck, i'm craaaazy, so we both know i'm not to be trusted. use your eyes and you might take note of mine; brown in case you can't tell. hair; brown, fluffy, generally refuses to stay flat but that could be me and my habit of feeling it up now and then. right, now, what else can i tell you about the fabulous me?.. OH, well, this one time this girl came up to me and said i look like some robert downey jr guy, but then i googled him and i'm actually a good two and a half inches taller than he is. yeahhh, 5'11", bitch, so stick that up your ass and.. somethingsomething.. YEAH. "
TELL US ABOUT YOUR MEDICAL HISTORY.
[/size][/font]" alright, so apparently i've got bipolar disorder. not only that, but severe bipolar two disorder. yeah, fancy that, huh? i couldn't really tell you the difference between bipolar one and two, something about having more manic episodes than depressive episodes. basically means i spend a lot more of my time in an 'abnormally and persistently elevated or irritable mood', with 'overly-inflated' self-esteem, lots of chit-chat, distractibility, physical agitation and less of a need for sleep, as opposed to being persistently sad, with a loss of interest in stuff i usually like, trouble sleeping or oversleeping, loss of energy, feelings of 'worthlessness' and general suicidal thoughts. or something. to be honest, when they were explaining all this, the only thing i was really interested in was something about 'hypersexuality', 'cause, i mean, what 'normal' guy would ever turn down some fun between the sheets? or on the coffee table, or the kitchen counter or the shower even? how can that be classified as a fucking symptom when every fucker in and out of this crazy house has it? whatever. more to the point, i once got some psychotic symptoms -- y'know, seeing stuff that apparently wasn't there? sure, uncle leo's been dead 13 years, but who's to say his ghost can't turn up on the roof of a twenty storey building to have a chat with me about how fucked up i am? my so-called problems mean i spend a lot of my time feeling scarily happy and yeah, i'm not afraid to tell you that a lot of the time it's seriously fucked up, but during my 'episodes' i generally don't give two fucks or even take notice that i'm feeling a lot more perky than i normally do. i mean fuck it, if i got really happy over a job promotion and went out drinking to celebrate, why should that consitute as an 'episode'? yeah, that's something else about me. i ain'ts allowed the ould 'dizzy water' anymore. apparently some deep-rooted shit from my kiddie days could be triggering any of the few low moods i've ever had so i gots to keep away from the vodka and that's just mean. everyone's a spoil sport round here nowadays, don'tcha think? when i'm not bouncing around the place apparently annoying everybody, despite what you might think i'm probably acting pretty lucid. normal. like any other joe soap. just 'cause i'm not super maniacally happy doesn't mean i'm depressed. in my case, this condition is a pretty severe one, or so i'm told, but i've still only had two near-death experiences because of it. you might say 'only', i say that with good reason, recklessly endangering my life is quite the normal thing to do in certain situations, so fuck you and your opinions and go have a nice day somewhere else. i gots me an eiffel tower to make out of my popsicle sticks
HOW CAN WE ACCOMODATE YOU BETTER?
[/size][/font]" accomodate me better? not accomodating me at all'd be a nice touch, but i won't go asking for miracles from you, don't you worry. i'm fond of my coffee and my tea and any caffeine in general, but try to feed me that red bull shit and i'll shove it up your ass -- honest to god, i've done it before and it's probably part of the reason i'm in here, so watch it. i used to love tv, particularly some of the english stuff my uncle leo used to show me like 'jeeves and wooster' or 'last of the summerwine', but now i really couldn't give a fuck, so unless you can get your hands on some stephen fry and hugh laurie for me that you lot can deem suitable, then just don't even fuckin' bother. don't have the attention span or the patience for any of the other stuff so don't go trying to meet me half way on this.. one thing i would actually love for you to do is give me as many popsicles as possible, whenever possible. i really, really like making things out of the little sticks afterwards or even just fiddling with them in general 'cause i like fiddling with things if you must know. in case you didn't notice, i sometimes find it a little hard to keep still, so matter of fact, how 'bout you just give me your keys there and i can just fiddle with those? no? okay, so i tried. still on the subject of things for me to fiddle with, bottle caps, straws and even something like a hair brush could work too. no, i'm not a fucking pack rat or something and i don't collect shit, i just like putting my time and energy into something constructive and whether or not you think being able to catch a hair brush by the handle every time it's thrown in the air is constructive, i do, so shut the fuck up and go get me a hair brush. and some popsicles. oh, and you know what else would be nice? baking facilities. that's right, i like to fucking bake, but do i get to bake in here? noooo. how the fuck am i meant to get 'better' if i can't even do the shit i enjoy like baking? i promise i won't steal a knife or something to attack one of the other patients. little old lovable me could never be capable of such an atrocity as threatening someone at knifepoint
TELL US ABOUT YOUR PAST.
[/size][/font]" but i haaaate going through all the boring shit in my life. my hometown was a dump of a place just outside big old new york city. my dad was a deadbeat, good-for-nothing salesman who had zero people skills and even worse parenting skills -- and before you go blaming anything wrong with me on him, he never once laid a finger on me and other than being a failure at everything else in life, i have to say i was probably his third greatest achievement; number two being his ability to chug a beer like nobody's business and his first and foremost being his hick paranoia about E.T. hiding under his bed. mom was just as much of an eccentric and tried to change my name so many times when i was growing up, ranging from her short obsession with the irish 'eoghan' (which is really 'owen', but she mispronounced it as 'ee-ogg-in' and made it sound weird too) to the simple, barely noticable nickname that i have since grown to despise, 'davey'. my school was shit, but what would you expect and when i was like ten or something, we moved house. to be honest, i'd always thought we were evicted, but as it turned out, mom had decided we were no longer going to be shackled by the restraints of a solitary home. for the next six years, we squatted. unsurprisingly, when mom refused to buy a new home as dad had thought we would, he left. i had the option to go with him, but some deep-rooted sense of pity for the maternal mess that spawned me meant i stuck it out. i bet you're expecting me to start detailing shit that would all start to explain where my illness originated from and yeah, i did some pretty fucked up shit in my teenage years, but i'd definitely put the blame of that on drugs and other bad influences as opposed to mental illness. i was never depressed, never had too much of a problem with the situation; i just kept going and accepted things as they were. when i was sixteen, my uncle leo, who was married to my dad's sister until she died of cancer, came over from england to take care of me because he knew mom had gone off the wall. honestly, she was the same as ever, but considering i was getting suspended from school and handed off to a social worker for all the fights i was getting into, something had to be done. mom went off to rehab, uncle leo set me straight, by the time i finished school (and yeah, i finished) i was actually pretty okay. well, as okay as i could have been and a lot better than i had been. lord fuckin' knows when all this shit really started to happen, but all i remember is getting my first real downer when i was about twenty one. mom had been to rehab about three times by then, for drugs and alcohol and general psychotic behaviour and she was still like she'd always been. alright so maybe this isn't the best track record for me and maybe i'm so fuckin' cynical of you bastards because of that, but shut the hell up and let me continue, 'cause here's where it gets real tragic -- uncle leo died. car crash, so sad, yeah it was, suicide attempt number one comin' right up. 'cept i don't think i was actually suicidal. moreso fascinated by the sight of blood, 'cause after i'd been in that car crash with uncle leo -- oh did i forget to mention that? -- i'd been pretty banged up. with a couple more scars than i'd like to have, i got pretty interested in the human body, how it healed, all that shit. ended up spending a lot of time doing some reading for once in my life, learning about platelets and blood cells and all that other shit i'd managed to miss in high school biology classes. i'm guessing my file's already told you it was a pretty typical kind of suicide attempt; good old fashioned slit of the wrists. like i said, probably more the fascination with blood than anything else, but you're the therapists so you can figure it out. so after that, in true textbook style, i started having recurring episodes, although a lot of them went undiagnosed for one hell of a long time, probably 'cause they were manic episodes instead of depressive ones and honestly, i daresay the cocaine didn't help. there were periods in between when nothing really happened and i seemed fine but then they got more frequent and eventually i finally got diagnosed for bipolar disorder by my doctor. got some special meds, started taking them, got a little bored, stopped taking them, suicide attempt numero deux rolled around. this episode was one of my first experiences of psychosis and probably the most prominent, 'course i do have vague memories of seeing shit that didn't seem real before that, but honestly it's not something you can self-diagnose all that easy, as you can imagine. so i got a job promotion, i was working in an office if you gotta know, decided to head out and celebrate. got drunk, went up to the roof with this girl i'd been eyefuckin' all night, barely even got it up and then i saw good old uncle leo. had a bit of an episode, barely even noticed the drunk bitch had stormed off when she got weirded out at the crazy guy arguing with himself (me, duh) and eventually i was found by my co-worker terry. apparently, i'd been standing on the edge of the building and roaring at thin air that "i'm gonna do it, i'm gonna fuckin' jump!" again, i wouldn't say it had been a suicide attempt, but i guess it's all a matter of perspective or some bullshit like that, right? so yeah, that's the basics of my shitty little boring life for you and can you blame me for being all pissy about having to tell it? after that, got some help, help decided it couldn't fuckin' help enough and now i'm here, ain't i? and well, isn't that just fan-fucking-tastic. ha, bet you're gonna have some fun diagnosing me some meds now, though. addiction's a bitch, right? "
IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE?
[/size][/font]" yeah, i can tell you're just ecstatic to have a guy like me hanging around the place now, huh? but i'm much more of a lovable psycho than you'd first think, right? i mean, wasn't even ten minutes ago i was annoying you by being annoying, now i'm annoying you by being pissy, right? soon enough i'll just be annoying you by being clingy, 'cause frankly, i'm as much of a co-dependent bastard as you've ever seen 'round here. further more, i have many quirky habits that have developed from my own sense of boredom instead of this 'illness' you keep saying i have. example a) anytime, anywhere, but particularly when eating or playing cards, i tend to sing that little tune from that simpsons programme over and over and over again. y'know, that one about the little spanish flea?.. there was a little spanish flea, a record star he thought he'd be.. yeah, so, i'm guessing this little session of ours is over, so, if you could just feel free to let me head home now i'd really appreciate it. not like it's gonna matter if i off myself or not anyw--FUCK. clap, clap, dave, nice little bit of textbook depresso talk there. uuggggggghhh i'm gonna be here for decades. "
THE MASTERMIND BEHIND IT ALL.
[/size][/font]hey, my name is CLEO!.[/color] i have FIFTEEENN[/color] tracks spinning on my record. this is my FIRST[/color] character. i have been roleplaying for FIVE YEARS[/color]. the password is silicone and saline poison, inject me[/color].[/font][/size]
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There was something there, something he could see just around the eyes, telling him she was sincere. It made him feel even worse about the whole situation. Here he was, half-dressed and hiding James in the closet (in a more ironically literal sense than before) and there she was spilling her guts out to him. Practically serenading him even. But he just couldn't help his feelings and regardless of what Klass had been telling her, she just wasn't his type. His best friend had always had a way of describing him as "gay most of the time, but not always" and that was just giving these girls hope when really there was none.
In a compelling imitation of a fish, his mouth opened and closed a couple of times without any purpose other than the intent to speak. Intent didn't get the words out of his mouth though. "Julie, I--" Choking on the words, Terry had no idea what to do. He knew James would be listening through the thin door of his walk-in closet so he needed to phrase this in a way they would both understand. He needed to make sure they didn't misinterpret anything. Again. Oh Jesus, she was staring at him again, big accusing blue eyes making his stomach turn in guilt.
"Sweetie, look, this, this just cannot happen..." Fuck, it was like that point on a roller coaster when it was just tipping over the edge and you were staring down into oblivion, knowing exactly what was to come and not knowing anyway to stop it. He could see her eyes starting to puff up, saw her tear ducts getting into gear for the waterworks... FUCK. How had he managed to get himself into this one? Oh yeah, that's right, he was Terry fucking Williams. Bad shit just seemed to happen no matter what he did or how he dealt with it.
He needed to elaborate on that sentence and fast, before she started having heart palpatations. "Julie, look, I like you, seriously. I mean, look at you, you're fuckin'... amazing. With your legs up to here," he gestured appropriately, "and your--your... bust out to here," again, another gesture, "and I know if things were any different, I'd be on you like a shot right now. But..." But James is in the closet listening in on every word and I don't think he'd be too happy if I took you here and now.
"Truth of the matter is, you're--you're my best friend's favourite student and I mean, Klass would kill me if he thought--I mean if he found out, if he knew..." This was ridiculous. He was Terry Williams, one of the most highly successful copyeditors around for years and here he was clutching at straws for a creative excuse? Bullshit. "Julie, you just gotta go. Accept that this ain't happening, write an angry but ambiguous poem about it in class and move on. Find a nice boy your own age who isn't gonna screw you over like I have."
As long as it wasn't James she set her eyes on next, that seemed like some very reasonable advice. If a little blunt.
In a compelling imitation of a fish, his mouth opened and closed a couple of times without any purpose other than the intent to speak. Intent didn't get the words out of his mouth though. "Julie, I--" Choking on the words, Terry had no idea what to do. He knew James would be listening through the thin door of his walk-in closet so he needed to phrase this in a way they would both understand. He needed to make sure they didn't misinterpret anything. Again. Oh Jesus, she was staring at him again, big accusing blue eyes making his stomach turn in guilt.
"Sweetie, look, this, this just cannot happen..." Fuck, it was like that point on a roller coaster when it was just tipping over the edge and you were staring down into oblivion, knowing exactly what was to come and not knowing anyway to stop it. He could see her eyes starting to puff up, saw her tear ducts getting into gear for the waterworks... FUCK. How had he managed to get himself into this one? Oh yeah, that's right, he was Terry fucking Williams. Bad shit just seemed to happen no matter what he did or how he dealt with it.
He needed to elaborate on that sentence and fast, before she started having heart palpatations. "Julie, look, I like you, seriously. I mean, look at you, you're fuckin'... amazing. With your legs up to here," he gestured appropriately, "and your--your... bust out to here," again, another gesture, "and I know if things were any different, I'd be on you like a shot right now. But..." But James is in the closet listening in on every word and I don't think he'd be too happy if I took you here and now.
"Truth of the matter is, you're--you're my best friend's favourite student and I mean, Klass would kill me if he thought--I mean if he found out, if he knew..." This was ridiculous. He was Terry Williams, one of the most highly successful copyeditors around for years and here he was clutching at straws for a creative excuse? Bullshit. "Julie, you just gotta go. Accept that this ain't happening, write an angry but ambiguous poem about it in class and move on. Find a nice boy your own age who isn't gonna screw you over like I have."
As long as it wasn't James she set her eyes on next, that seemed like some very reasonable advice. If a little blunt.
