Madhouse
So, a shrink walks into a psych hospital. A woman stalks past, proclaiming that where she walks, God walks. Context is all, thinks the shrink.
So the shrink hears a man arguing with the staff. He wants a private room. He wants to share a room. He wants a witness. He wants no witnesses. He wants Doordash to deliver McDonald’s. He insists he had five—no, nine—no, 27—NO, 79 visitors over the weekend. Visitors such as have never been seen before. And they were strong men, with tears in their eyes. An aide mutters, Okaaay, but no one else could see them.
So the shrink has come to the psych hospital to evaluate this patient. So, is his damage emotional or neurological? The patient talks big. Claims massive success out in the world. In her private shorthand the shrink notes that he cannot follow instructions. He says he wants to see what she’s writing. He snatches her clipboard, turns it round and round. And round. She wonders if he can read. He says that everything about him is the best, including his testosterone level. The shrink changes chairs to hide her shudder. I have the best words says the patient, and he says it again. The shrink notes that they are always the same words. Bizarre grooming too. Hair styled so unnatural as to be delusional, like a ludicrous helmet, and a tie long enough to hang himself. She must tell staff to take it away, to protect the other patients. Rule out Frontal Lobe Syndrome, jots the shrink, meaning she is pretty sure that this guy’s frontal lobe isn’t managing those executive functions.
The shrink walks out into the fresh air and sighs in relief. This place is a madhouse, she thinks, and drives away.