You’re in a mental institution. What finally drove you crazy?
Please post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.
And also — First time to PROMPTuesday? Welcome! Read a bit about this weekly writing exercise here.
(Want to see what’s been written in the past? Catch up on the PROMPTuesdays archive here.)
It was the bus timetables. For years I had never understood them. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t get the time of a certain bus from them, it was the fact that it took me so long, and all the while I struggled to understand why anyone would design them so badly, so cryptic, so mind-numbing. Then one day I was frantically trying to find the times for a bus, I was in a rush, it was hot, a wasp was driving me mad and the neightbour’s dog was being a total dork. I snapped, it was too much.
It was the waiting. The waiting is what finally did her in. Waiting to start. Waiting to finish. Waiting for the next big thing. Waiting for something to happen.
As soon as the kids finish school…
As soon as he gets that promotion…
As soon as her business takes off…
As soon as we sell the house…
The next thing can’t happen until *this* is finished. *This* can’t finish until *that* is done. It’s neverending. Eternal. No beginning. No end. Limbo.
When they found here sitting in the corner, in the dark, hugging herself and rocking, they gently prodded. They tried to coax it out of her, but to no avail. Her only response was, “Is it time?”
Time for what? She couldn’t say.
Oh, that’s easy — the roommmate. His drinking, the smoking, the insane ranting and raving. The inability for him to recall anything factually. The fact that I can ill afford his stupidity at the moment.
And then there’s California’s work comp system. Don’t even get me started.
Wow, that may be the shortest response I’ve ever had to a prompt.
Shana stole my answer and darned if I could think of another one.
I so wanted to be funny, but it didn’t come. And I didn’t even answer the question.
http://anindigovirgo.blogspot.com/2009/08/promptuesday-orecchiette.html
Politics. Does there even need to be any more to the answer? (lame, I know… but, Baby!)
Beep beep beep beep, beep, beep beep, beep.
A lady in the office next to me, trying to figure out how to mail a registered letter using the new postage meter.
Beep beep, beep beep.
(sigh)
With everything still going on and on about Michael Jackson, I finally lost it.
I listened faithfully every night to the newscasters, trying to figure out the true meaning behind Michael Jackson.
Why did he grab his crotch like a pit bull sucking off the smell of last nights prime rib dinner?
Why did he wear that sequined covered glove like a proud little girl getting ready for her first dance recital (sequins included)?
Did Michael really die of a drug overdose due to a chemical addiction that falls back to the days of Oh My Hair Is On Fire?
Does Michael know that Debbie Rowe is still a pig?
Are Michael and Elvis popping pills together on a carosel, singing about Hound Dogs? What does Michael’s hound dog cry sound like anyway?
I’m sitting in my padded room, my arms are tied behind my back, as I rock back and forth on my butt, which is now as sufficient as my grandmother’s rocking chair.
All of these questions and they lock ME up because I think I may be the mother of our beloved Prince Michael II (aka BLANKET???)
I might be crazy, but I really think it’s the media imposing into my delicate, Michael Jackson dead brain…so let’s just Beat It
I’m back for a Prompt this week–yay! I squeaked it out just in time before the van arrived to pick me up.