The common room is starting to smell like fermented shit, man. I mean, it's getting bad. I haven’t observed any kind of cleaning crew in this place since we got here and I think it’s about time we get someone here to do it. Randy used to be a high-school janitor so I don’t see why we can’t just get him to clean it. Some of these people don’t shower, and by “some of these people” I mean Rudy. Rudy, as we have all come to discover is a fucking scumbag and I don’t think he’s taken a rinse since we got here. There isn’t a ton of space to put between us in the common area; there's only three couches and two comfy chairs. In the far corner of the lobby there’s a table that sits about eight people and where folks like to play cards. Right next to the table is the bookshelf and water fountain.
How did you doctors expect us to sit here every evening immersed in this vile stench with absolutely nothing to do? Is this part of the experiment? You want to see how long we go before we all eventually kill each other? If so, Rudy’s going to be the first one to the morgue, I assure you.
I’m not kidding, if we don’t get rid of Rudy’s poopy-ass smell; there’s going to be all kinds of trouble. The fat son-of-a-bitch just sits in that chair that we are calling, “gas-catcher” and he watches us with his twisted, psycho expression. On top of that, he busts ass every 15 minutes. At first, yeah it was kind of funny, but now it’s ridiculous and hazardous I think. Farts are basically methane gas and too much of the shit will kill you. I heard a news story about a guy who farted too many times in his bedroom one night, and that he died from it because he didn’t have any ventilation. Even the fucking paramedics that went into his bedroom to drag the guy’s corpse out got sick! Help us doctors! We literally didn’t sign up for this shit. I don’t like Rudy, none of us do. I hope you do something about him, or we’re going to have to discipline him Full Metal Jacket style.
On to more important matters… this morning was really fucking weird. I’m in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and the shower is raging down boiling water. I don’t hear anyone so I open the curtain and sitting on the floor is Frank. Only when I first looked at him, he looked like a kid. I don’t know if some water got into my eyes or what, but I fucking swear I was staring at a child. I blinked and it was Frank, adult Frank. Frank the Asian. He looked totally out of it and he said to me, “we’re all on the drug.” I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t feel like I’m on the drug and I don’t see too many people with any weird shit going on… I don’t know, it was strange. That’s why I was asking you this morning Dr. Nelson if we’re all on the drug. I hope you can give me an answer because if so, I’d like to report the drug doesn’t do shit.
The rest of the morning was kind of a bitch because we had to do those psychological tests again, but I’m happy to report that I think I did better this time around. It’s perhaps because I’ve been sober as a priest for the past five days. Not to mention that my mind is exceptionally clear of all distractions. It’s probably due to the fact that there’s nothing to do in this damn place. Hell, if you doctors want to give us all some cleaning supplies, I really wouldn’t mind it at this point.
I’m also pleased to have $1200 in my bankroll and that I’m still here even though I’m probably not on the pill some of the others are on. I guess I have noticed a few people acting stranger that usual today. Since yesterday, Ben has become less talkative and this afternoon Randy seemed to be mopey and depressed. He’s been moaning about how he thinks that his “bitch wife” is probably cheating on him and that he misses his kids. Plus, this headache of his seems to be getting worse. Are you all not able to give the guy a Tylenol? You’re doctors for fucks sake. He could also just be putting on a sympathy seeking act to get Emily into his little cot. Who knows. I don’t like seeing him like this though.
Lynette was getting a little feisty today too! She’s been snapping at people constantly since our dose this morning. This afternoon I was lounging on the couch next to Jeff, and I saw her yell at Dr. Roberts because she couldn’t call home to her kids.
“When you all gonna let us call our kids?” She snapped at Dr. Roberts
“Outside communication is restricted for the term of the trial,” he shot back not even bothering to look at her. That got her pissed!
“Excuse me! You don’t look at people when they talking to you?” she yelled.
Dr. Roberts turned to face her and his face turned a little red. “When the trial is over, you may contact your family to pick you up,” he said robotically and walked away.
Lynette punched the couch cushion and growled. “That mothafucka.”
It was kind of intense and kind of nice because we’ve been pretty bored. Although, it leads me to my next problem with this place; we’re not allowed to communicate with the outside world the entire time we’re here. Why the fuck not? The pills are not doing much of anything to us, so why such a controlling atmosphere? It doesn’t seem right that we can’t get word out to any of our families and friends. Plus, I’m going to need to pay the fucking rent in 9 days or they’ll toss my shit in the streets! It seems a little peculiar to me now that I think about it. This whole set-up seems a little odd. There’s this guy, don’t know his name yet, but he sits at the card table with the rest of his clique, fast-talking at them like some car salesmen. Apparently, he’s done these medical trials before, and he said that there was never any restriction on communication. He also mentioned that most of the trials he participated in; they were permitted to keep their phones, and even had access to Wi-Fi.
More and more, I wonder what we’ve gotten ourselves into here. Thank God no one has died from this shit yet. I just can’t understand why there is so much secrecy and this total lack of information. We’re all getting on each other’s fucking nerves because we don’t know what to do with ourselves. Add Rudy’s fucked up presence into the stew and you’ve got a recipe for catastrophe.
The truth for me, however, is that I could care less about communicating out. I’m just worried about being able to pay the rent on time. I don’t want my shit locked up and auctioned off. I have some pretty expensive things that I’ve collected over the years, like my signed Tom Brady Jersey and all my Led Zeppelin Records. These are valuable to me man and I don’t want to lose them. You know how many times I’ve pawned them off and had to buy them back? Dozens. So, I better be able to get out and pay my rent. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.
I wonder if this is how my father feels, being locked up. Feel sorry for the guy, but then again, I don’t. He fucking murdered people for a living. Mom said he only took out scum, but still. Can’t people change? He didn’t have a right to play God I don’t think. I always wonder, if he’d been a normal and regular father, would I be as fucked up as I am today? Probably not. Thanks, Dad…
I’m going to go lie down for the night; maybe I’ll grab one of those books and read for a change. I haven’t read a book for over 20 years. My mind is a hell of a lot clearer now for some reason, and words come easier to my tongue when I talk. I find myself able to focus my thoughts much easier than I have in a long time. It must be the lack of anxiety from always looking over my shoulder or maybe the lack of TV, or cigarettes… I don’t know, but I like it. I feel smarter. Well, I better go check on Randy, I don’t like his sudden mood shift.
Tomorrow should be a good day because they’re letting us go out into the courtyard to see the sky. I don’t care how cold it is; I need to see the sky.