Evan rested his elbows on the counter, looking out at the seated customers with apathy. He’d gotten a job at Harbucks the month before, which would be surprising were he the sort to be surprised. He had no qualifications, no people skills, no work ethic, no desire to be there, and had made no attempt to fake any of these things in his interview. He wasn’t thankful for the job, instead viewing his hiring as fate once again screwing him over by forcing him to interact with morons early in the morning.
He took a drag off of his cigarette. He hadn’t bothered even looking for a smoke alarm, as that seemed far too much effort since its blare would drive away the pathetic masses before it bothered him, but so far his smoking hadn’t set anything off. He idly hoped that that meant there wasn’t one, and daydreamed that the shop would burn down. Too stupid to flee from danger without an alarm telling them to do so, his customers would go up in flames with it. Sometimes he threw in bonuses like their horrified screams, but usually the idea alone was satisfaction enough, even without any frills.
The best that can be said about this institution is that the level of misery is constant.
The psychiatrists here aren’t making a true attempt at psychoanalysis. Instead the entire event has devolved into fistfights and open mockery. With the exception of medication, it bears such a resemblance to my life at home that escaping would seem redundant.
I spoke with Henrietta. I told her that a desperate person could commit suicide in here if they truly wanted to, but that I was not desperate. This is true.
Still, it seems a worthy experiment.
Statistically hanging is far more lethal than any of the methods that come readily to mind to kill myself in here. I’ve never cared for challenges, but I’ll take this one.
I’d like to prove I’m more capable of offing myself with these fucks watching than I was when everything was in my favor. It seems the greatest form of irony.
Try to stop me, you dumb fucks.
I’ve been institutionalized.
Conformist fags consider suicide to be something worthy of prevention. Since most of the people in this hick town make the mistake of Catholicism, they most likely think what I attempted is a “sin” as well. That’s a relief. I fucked up my death, but at least I managed to affront their pathetic moral values.
I’ve been diagnosed with depression and a schizoid personality.
I’m guessing that is what the idiotic psychiatrists expect me to write about. That and how I feel about things. Once I have, they’ll read what I’ve written and offer a pathetic attempt at analysis of my psyche.
So, to my captors:
I hate conformists
I tolerate nonconformists
I hate the endless drone of life
Arthur Shawcross was always an idol of mine. Unlike him I am not antisocial, but knowing I share his diagnosis of SPD makes me feel much closer to him. When I get out, I think I’ll reenact his crimes.
Analyze that, faggots.