Victor Van Dort
- Aspiration: Knowledge
- LTW: Max Out 7 Skills
- Zodiac Sign: Pisces
- Personality: 5 Sloppy/Neat, 2 Shy, 7 Active, 3 Serious, 8 Nice
- Turn-Ons: Black Hair, Creative
- Turn-Off: Fatness
- Predestined Hobby: Tinkering
- Interests: Enjoys - Money, Entertainment, Food; Dislikes - Paranormal, Weather, Health
The doctors have told me that it would be in my best interest to keep a journal of my progress. They said that it would help me get better if I had a record of the improvement I've already made. I still don't think I'm crazy, but at this point, I do find it easier to go along with what they say rather than trying to argue the point. I just want to be free of asylums and doctors. I want to -- well, I must admit, I don't want to go home anymore. There's too many bad memories there. I still can't believe my own parents. . .
Never mind. The important thing right now is to convince the doctors that I'm well and can be released. Coming here to the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Boys is a step in the right direction, I suppose. It's a place for those people who are right on the verge of getting better to stay. The doctors have told me that I'm allowed to do most things for myself now. I'm even allowed to get a job, if I like. Which is good, because I'm sure my parents' generosity in paying my bills at the asylum will end as soon as I'm out of it. Oh dear, I hope I can find someplace willing to take on someone who's never worked a day in his life -- and has spent so much time in -- "supervised hospitalization" seems the best way to put it. But I've got to try, if only to have a way to feed and clothe myself once I get out.
Never mind. The important thing right now is to convince the doctors that I'm well and can be released. Coming here to the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Boys is a step in the right direction, I suppose. It's a place for those people who are right on the verge of getting better to stay. The doctors have told me that I'm allowed to do most things for myself now. I'm even allowed to get a job, if I like. Which is good, because I'm sure my parents' generosity in paying my bills at the asylum will end as soon as I'm out of it. Oh dear, I hope I can find someplace willing to take on someone who's never worked a day in his life -- and has spent so much time in -- "supervised hospitalization" seems the best way to put it. But I've got to try, if only to have a way to feed and clothe myself once I get out.
The home is a rather large and empty place, without much to offer in the way of comforts. Then again, it is a home for mental patients -- more money has to be spent on treatments rather than furniture, I'm sure. To my delight, though, the home does have a piano! I spent a good portion of the day just indulging my passions for music. It's been far too long since I've touched a keyboard -- I'm unspeakably rusty. Hopefully long practice sessions will fix that.
My fellow patients are -- less than appreciative of my musical leanings. One of them -- a man named Chris -- told me my playing was making him physically ill. I really don't think that was warranted.
Particularly because his own efforts at the keyboard are rather terrible. But he does seem to enjoy his time spent at the piano. Perhaps, if I get on better terms with him, I can offer him lessons?
Of course, that depends on my getting on better terms with him. Chris doesn't seem to like me much. And I know the reason why, too, given that he told me straight out: "A stupid little rich boy like yourself doesn't know the meaning of real suffering!" I -- maybe he has a point. After all, I'm the only one in here from a wealthy family. Everyone else is solidly middle class, if not lower. And I was the only one allowed to bring real clothes, rather than having to wear the ones provided by the institution. (Though I wish I could have gotten something nicer. I miss my old suit quite a bit. But they confiscated that upon my arrival. . .) Still, I don't think that's enough to hate me. We're all in the same boat, so to speak, aren't we?
The other patients, particularly Johnny, are much friendlier. If a bit more interested in my reasons for being committed than I'd like. Danny (at least, I think it was Danny -- I haven't learned everyone's names yet, we're all from different asylums) kept asking me what it was like to kiss a corpse. I told him repeatedly I didn't know, but he just kept smiling and nodding to the others. I HATE the fact that the doctors labeled me a "possible mild necrophiliac" -- I'm not! What happened between me and Emily was much different than necrophilia! At least the diagnosis of "delusional" doesn't cause people to regard me with quite as much disgust.
The doctors at least have told me I'm making very good progress -- that's the whole reason I've been released to the home. They told me to set a goal before coming here, and once I completed it to their satisfaction, I would be released. I chose to try and get a well-rounded education of the skills I would need to survive in the outside world. I've spent almost all my life being cared for by others (my parents, servants, and doctors). If I can prove I can take care of myself, that should mean I'm well again. The doctors agreed, to my intense relief. I've already made some progress -- I spent much of my time not on the piano studying how to cook. They're allowing us to feed ourselves, and I feel I should get in as much practice making my own food as possible.
Besides, for some odd reason, all of my fellow patients seem utterly obsessed with making grilled cheese sandwiches. I suppose it's good they know how to make something, but I suspect eating the same thing day in and day out will rapidly get tiring.
I think the nicest thing to happen today was us getting some visitors. We have a sister house down the block, it appears -- the Rutledge Asylum for Wayward Girls. Three of the girls used their day passes to come visit us. I don't know why you would go visit one asylum when you've just been allowed out from another for a while, but I don't mind the company. I had a lovely conversation with one Miss Alice Liddell. For someone who admitted to being in and out of institutions since she was eight, she's quite learned and witty.
And rather pretty, if I may say so. . .
No, I really shouldn't. My last few experiences with love -- well, they're what put me into the asylum. I should probably avoid it. (And besides, what could a girl like Miss Liddell see in me? Not to mention she has been in hospitals for years now. . .but she seemed quite sane to me. . .)
Oh, never mind all that. I just hope I get to speak to her again. I would really appreciate a friend here. Anything to get my mind off the fact that I am still technically in an asylum.
No, I really shouldn't. My last few experiences with love -- well, they're what put me into the asylum. I should probably avoid it. (And besides, what could a girl like Miss Liddell see in me? Not to mention she has been in hospitals for years now. . .but she seemed quite sane to me. . .)
Oh, never mind all that. I just hope I get to speak to her again. I would really appreciate a friend here. Anything to get my mind off the fact that I am still technically in an asylum.
While I'm writing on that subject, I may as well admit I don't know at all why the doctors insist on us using that gyroscope device on us. The one at the Home is said to be the latest and greatest model, but I have my doubts. It looks like a death trap to me -- where are the safety restraints? In the old one, at least you were strapped in! What happens if you lose your grip and slip?
I know for a fact that one of the men got physically ill after using it! How such a device is supposed to 'rebalance our humors' is beyond me. The old one only ever made me dizzy and nauseous. Hopefully I can avoid having to try out this new model -- I know the afterlife exists, and is a rather fun place, but I'd prefer not to go there with a cracked skull.
If I'm completely honest, the whole layout of the Home worries me. There's only two bedrooms, and only five beds. So why send eight people to live here? It's the same with the dining area -- there's only chairs enough for three of us. (Of course, that may be because the table has been forced into a corner of the kitchen. . .)
And having just one toilet, one sink, and one shower for all of us cannot be sanitary. I know that part of the purpose of the Home is to get us used to living with other people again, but surely making us all share a single lavatory is going a bit far? (Oh God, I hope they don't intend to read this. Speaking ill about the home might get me sent back and I don't want that at all. I've been poked and prodded and restrained enough.)
No, I mustn't let myself surrender to worry. I'm here to prove myself a fit member of society. That's what I have to focus on. A good night's sleep in a real bed might help. It has to.
***
I'm slowly getting used to living here at Houndsditch. The piano remains my usual source of comfort and entertainment. I'm slowly improving in my playing -- hopefully it won't be too long before I'm back at the level I used to be. It's rather embarrassing to be hitting so many wrong notes so often.
I'm also making good progress in my studies. I don't know why, but something about the fall air makes it easier to concentrate. I found a book about mechanics on our bookshelf, so I've been studying that lately. After all, if anything breaks, it would be useful if I could repair it myself, instead of resorting to a repairman. I'm also still doing my best to memorize some of the recipes in that cookbook I found. I'd like to try some of them out soon.
Of course, I have no idea if my culinary efforts would be appreciated. My fellow patients remain obsessed with grilled cheese sandwiches. It's quite peculiar, to be honest. Especially in light of a conversation I had with Alice recently. Apparently all the other patients in Rutledge are similarly fascinated by grilled cheese. Well, on the plus side, there's almost always a hot meal ready on the counter (though it does get tiring, eating the same thing day in and day out).
On the other hand, we're rather rapidly running short of food. The doctors said we were responsible for our own groceries -- part of the therapy, they claim -- which wouldn't be so bad if we weren't so low on money as well. I do hope I can find a job soon. I haven't gotten an interview anywhere yet.
But on the positive side, I'm slowly being accepted by the other patients. Chris still harbors some ill feelings toward me, but the others are willing to keep me company during my studies, and engage me in conversation.
In fact, I spent quite a pleasant hour or so talking with Johnny and Paul about music. I told them about learning the piano, and of the various compositions I'd learned. Johnny is like me that he favors Mozart and Beethoven over a lot of "modern" music. Paul is less classically inclined, but he confessed to enjoy the occasional piece by Bach. It was so nice to have a conversation about something I really enjoy again.
But I must be honest -- sometimes the behavior of the other patients worries me. Johnny is a good conversationalist, but he sometimes has lapses where he'll forget to eat or bathe for quite long periods. I don't know what brings them on -- I do hope it's nothing I do.
And many of the others seem to really enjoy the gyroscope for some baffling reason. They even cheer each other on whenever one takes a ride! I cannot understand it for the life of me -- that device seems less a medical instrument and more a death trap!
Albert, who has ridden it multiple times, says I'm scared for no reason. He claims it's wonderful for the muscles. "It'll help you get fit faster, Victor! You need to put some muscles on your skinny frame!"
I think if I want to build up muscle, I'll do so using the jump rope I found on the grounds. It seems infinitely safer than going for a ride in that horrible spinning device. And less risk of nausea as well.
Goodness, but I am tired. I'll have to close this now so I can be assured of finding a bed. I wonder if I can petition the doctors to at least add one more -- one of the bedrooms has room. . .
Goodness, but I am tired. I'll have to close this now so I can be assured of finding a bed. I wonder if I can petition the doctors to at least add one more -- one of the bedrooms has room. . .
***
I've finally gotten a job! A scientist in this community put an ad in the paper asking for people to help him with experiments. I cleared it with the doctors, and now I'm gainfully employed! Granted, the man -- Dr. Burton -- is a bit of an odd duck. He insisted on zapping me a few times with a static-electricity machine to see if I had psychic powers. And then he gave me two pieces of licorice to eat, saying if I picked the right one, I'd become smarter. I ate the blue one. It made my scalp tingle, but I'm not sure if it increased my intelligence. But he hasn't done anything truly horrible to me, and it's better to have a job than not.
Especially since the bills have been piling up lately. I don't know why we're responsible for our own property taxes and such. Shouldn't the doctors be paying for such things? It is their building, after all. (Of course, if I may be blunt, they did send eight people to living in a house only equipped for five, judging by the number of beds.) (I really do hope saying that doesn't count against my chances of leaving. . .)
I confess, though, I'm a little worried about the fact that my having a job means the others are home alone a lot of the day. They're nice people for the most part, but they have some strange habits. I caught Paul punching Albert in the loo the other day. They claimed they were playing a game. I don't know which explanation is less disturbing -- that Paul was beating up Albert, or that they generally were playing a game that involved beating up each other.
And just tonight -- well, Alice was right to warn me to keep that stove clean at all times. Someone was disposing of some old scraps, and it caught on fire from all the grime build-up.
I have to say, I was never so scared in my life. Especially when it appeared the extinguishing device they left us in case of emergency wasn't going to work! For a long moment, I was half-certain I was going to return to the afterlife with all my skin burnt off! (Oh, I shouldn't have written that, I'm picturing it now. . .)
But eventually the extinguisher caught, and I got the blaze under control. At the expense of all our hygiene, of course -- I still smell terrible because I haven't yet gotten a chance at the shower. It feels horrible to feel so filthy. . .but I can't help but be proud of myself for possibly saving our lives. Still, aren't we suppose to have some sort of device that automatically summons the fire department in these cases? I don't understand why they would forget to install that of all things.
It also worries me that I know what caused the build-up of grime -- grilled cheese. Specifically, the fact that my housemates cook these sandwiches constantly. Even if someone's already preparing a platter (and it is always a platter -- never a single meal), someone else will grab the cheese and bread and start making their own platter!
They'll even complain if they get in each other's way! And sometimes they'll abandon the food mid-preparation, forcing me to quickly rescue it before it gets burnt. I'm heartily sick of bread and cheese, but it's all we have left to eat. The icebox and pantries are empty except for the leftover sandwiches. I'm going to try and order groceries tomorrow, and hopefully expand our diets a bit.
I suppose it hasn't been all bad. My old skills with the piano are coming back, thanks to steady practicing. Perhaps I spend more time at the keyboard then I should, but having a piano here really calms me. Even Chris has become more appreciative of my music.
And I must say his own skills have improved tremendously. Perhaps I shouldn't be so ashamed of spending every moment I can at the keyboard. A lot of the other men do the same -- in particular, Chris and Danny. (Danny even told me that he used to be a musician, before he had a nervous breakdown thanks to overscheduling. I feel for the poor man -- I could never play professionally. I'd spend all my time on the floor curled up into a ball of terror.)
That's the one big positive about living here -- I haven't made any enemies yet. Most everyone seems willing to tolerate me, at least (even Chris), and a few of the others seem to want to make friends. Tim and I had a nice discussion about the state of the theater the other day. We agree that there are too many rather pretentious plays these days, and not enough funny ones. Not that either of us really know anymore. . .heh.
No, wait, I shouldn't say I haven't made any enemies. I should say I haven't made any I know anything about. I came home today to find the garbage can overturned, with garbage spilling everywhere. Paul told me a young lady had kicked it over, mumbling something about "sicken them for the God." I -- have no idea what that means. I called Alice, but she said the woman's description didn't match anyone in Rutledge. Is there another facility around here I don't know about? Or has this poor woman been denied the care she so badly needs? (Paul says that "obviously she was just a {rude word I shall not write here}," but that doesn't really explain her words. . . .)
I'm not going to let myself dwell on it. I know mental patients are never exactly afforded a warm welcome anywhere. I just hope no other acts of vandalism occur. As it is, I'd like to take advantage of the clear skies and our telescope to do a little stargazing before bed. The moonlight is quite beautiful as
No, I shouldn't write that. Much as omitting it feels like dishonoring her memory.
No, I shouldn't write that. Much as omitting it feels like dishonoring her memory.
***
I've earned a promotion! Dr. Burton's upgrade me from test subject to official Lab Assistant! Now I no longer have to eat strange licorice! My new duties consist mainly of cleaning up the laboratory, and doing some paperwork. I think I can manage that. Best of all, it comes with a pay raise!
And not a moment too soon, I think. The food situation was becoming a bit dire. Some of the patients were starting to go hungry, and those that weren't. . .well, I blame their strange fascination with the gyroscope for their lack of nutrition. I'm still keeping well away from it myself. They're going to have to force me into it if they want me to try it.
All is well now, though. The grocery delivery service came through just in the nick of time. Our icebox and pantry are now full again. And of more than just cheese and bread and juice. I ordered plenty of fresh vegetables and fruits to try and tempt my roommates into eating something besides grilled cheese for a change. True, the leftovers helped keep us all alive during the lean times, but I'm starting to get heartily sick of this constant parade of sandwiches.
And frankly, I think the others are as well. I had to rescue some burnt grilled cheese from the stove after one of the others just walked away and left it. I really wish whoever it was hadn't done that -- not only is it a waste of food, but it could have caused another fire! I'm not sure my nerves could handle another one.
To be honest, I'm getting worried about the others again. Paul's taken to stuffing his face at the icebox. I don't understand it -- he always seems in such a good mood, and then I find him drinking milk straight from the container. That's terribly unhygienic.
And Mike's been mumbling to himself as of late. About how "it's watching, always watching. . .can't escape its gaze. . ." I'm not sure what he's talking about. I really do think the poor man needs more help than this place can give. Is it common to slide backwards in one of these places?
And either Tim or Danny -- I only saw the perpetrator once, and they look rather alike from the back -- keeps trying to hide the bills for some arcane reason. I keep finding them scattered about the yard. Again, I haven't the slightest idea why. He must know we have to pay those to live here, right? Oh please, don't let my fellow patients be backsliding. We're all supposed to be getting well here.
I suppose I just need to focus on the positive. And there is one big positive in my life -- Alice Liddell. She and I can talk for hours on the phone on any subject. Mostly we speak about what we want our lives to be like once we get out of here. I hope to be able to live comfortably in a place with lots of trees and butterflies. I've always loved nature, and I want to live somewhere surrounded by it. (Of course, if I want that, I really do need a better-paying position. I just have to remember, baby steps. . .)
She agreed with me, saying how much she wanted to be able to get out and be able to run in a field without anyone thinking it strange. We agree on a lot of things, really. She can be rather brash and sarcastic at times, but underneath all that she really is a kind and loving person. I can easily call her one of my best friends now.
Of course, now I feel guilty about not telling her about why I'm in here. I just -- I don't want to lose her. I don't want to lose another --
Of course, now I feel guilty about not telling her about why I'm in here. I just -- I don't want to lose her. I don't want to lose another --
I'm also still on good terms with all of my fellow patients. Though, granted, they still want to talk constantly about grilled cheese. Usually while I'm studying. And it always feels so impolite to shush them so I can concentrate. I'll have to work on that. Some of these skills I actually need for my job.
Or even here at the house -- the shower broke the other day, and apparently I was the only one with any sort of skills to repair it. Quite glad it was just a loose pipe, otherwise I don't know what we would have done. (I tried to call a repairman, but -- the line never connected. Perhaps I should have someone in to look at the phone?)
Oh dear, thinking about that is getting me all stressed again. I think I'll go downstairs and have a cup of tea. I haven't had one in a long while, and it might be just the thing for my nerves.
***
We had another fire this morning! I was right in the middle of my breakfast when suddenly there was a flash, and -- I'm ashamed to admit I was utterly useless in this situation. Fortunately Mike's quick thinking saved me from everything but smelling of smoke. I thanked him profusely for being quicker to act than I was. Goodness, that stove is going to haunt my nightmares if these keeps going on.
And it does not help that shortly afterward, I was informed that both the sink and the toilet were broken. I suppose I should just be grateful that the shower was spared. I tried to call a repairman, but the fellow refused to come over. Said I should be able to handle it myself. He sounded almost -- gleeful. Like he enjoyed turning me down for a job. I don't understand it, I really don't.
As it is, I've only had time to unclog the toilet. The sink is still spewing water everywhere. I'm hoping to get to it tomorrow. In the meantime, the other men living here seem to be handling the puddles well enough. (Why don't any of them try to fix it, though. Am I the only one who knows anything about mechanics? That would be odd, considering I'm the only one here who was idle rich at any point in his life. . .)
It's days like these that I'm beyond grateful the people who designed this place at least saw fit to include a piano. Sometimes it feels like the chance to play is the only thing helping me to keep a grip on my sanity.
And I know the other men agree. Not just by how many of them spend their free hours playing it (we're becoming quite a talented group of musicians). They love to talk about it, and some have even taken to dancing to the music.
Though I must admit, having Tim dance nearby while I tried to work on my public speaking (according to my doctors, 'gaining some charisma' is one of the things I have to do to be discharged. Talk about a hard goal, but. . .whatever it takes) was rather -- distracting.
Still, it's good to see my fellow patients staying cheerful. Some of them are still spending a lot of time mumbling to themselves. Nothing quite as bad as what Alice has reported (poor Carole!), but still. It worries one. I'm scared I'll come back from work one day to find someone has had a complete nervous breakdown, and I won't know what to do.
If I'm completely honest, what worries me the most is that none of them really seem to know why they're acting the way they do. I brought up the subject of grilled cheese over lunch one day, trying to figure out why they were all so obsessed.
They all just stared at me. And then Johnny finally admitted he'd never thought about it. He just wanted to eat every slice of cheese and bread in the house. Paul even said he didn't like cheese all that much. And yet here they are, devouring grilled cheese sandwiches for every meal. It's -- should I call the doctors or not? I'm not cut out for these sorts of decisions. . .
They all just stared at me. And then Johnny finally admitted he'd never thought about it. He just wanted to eat every slice of cheese and bread in the house. Paul even said he didn't like cheese all that much. And yet here they are, devouring grilled cheese sandwiches for every meal. It's -- should I call the doctors or not? I'm not cut out for these sorts of decisions. . .
Heh. I say that when Dr. Burton's just told me I can join him on expeditions as a field researcher. It's another much-needed bump in pay, and it gives me even more hope that I'll be able to get out of the asylum. After all, if Dr. Burton trusts me enough to help him do science, I must be sane, right?
I'm going to keep that thought in mind as I turn in for the night. Right now I need the hope.
I'm going to keep that thought in mind as I turn in for the night. Right now I need the hope.
***
I swear, they deliberately gave us plumbing that would break at the slightest provocation! I was just trying to wash my hands this morning when I suddenly ended up with a face full of water! It worked very well to get the cobwebs out of my head, admittedly, but. . .
It took me at least three attempts to finally fix what was wrong. Not because it was a particularly hard job, though -- because I kept being shooed out by the others wanting to go to the toilet. I felt like asking, "Could you please hold it?" but the looks I got when I tried to bring the subject up were -- well. I haven't gotten such nasty glares since my failed wedding rehearsal.
Then again, maybe I can't blame the others. The bathrooms always seem to be the busiest places in the house. No one can just do their business and leave, if I may put things every so slightly crudely. I suppose I'm fortunate that I've avoided such jams. Of course, I also have access to a more private loo at work, so. . .
Work is going well, for the most part -- my main duties are fetching parts and glassware for Dr. Burton, it seems. It does leave me with plenty of time to work on my life skills. I'm still trying to conquer my shyness a bit and work on my charisma. Honestly, I think having the piano so close actually helps. It's a comforting presence in this house.
I've also taken to stargazing at night. It helps calm me down before I get to bed. There's so much to see in the night sky, and it's all so beautiful. . . I've tried drawing some pictures, but I don't know how well they really capture what I've seen. If only we had an easel and some paint here! Maybe I could ask for some. . .
I still haven't figured out Chris. While he's nowhere near as hostile as he was when we first arrived, he's still not exactly friendly towards me. He likes to hang around while I'm trying to study, asking me what it's like to work "like the rest of us mere mortals." It's probably horribly rude of me, but I've taken to ignoring him whenever he tries to make conversation. It's better than snapping off an insult, at least.
I'm just glad it's not just me who finds him a little offensive. Mike says the man has atrocious table manners. I'm not surprised. Chris thinks the height of humor is a good -- fart joke. I don't know, maybe he's right and I did grow up too sheltered, but that sort of humor is just so. . .icky.
No, I promised myself not to let such things get to me. I just should be grateful things aren't as bad as they are at Rutledge. Alice tells me that some of the women there are starting to suffer from mental breakdowns. Over here, everyone is still functioning and getting along. Well, mostly. I did catch Danny and Tim punching each other the other day over some imagined slight.
And yet they claim to be the best of friends. I don't understand it, and perhaps I don't want to. Frankly, all I want is to get out of here and find a place far away from my hometown and any asylums. One where I can live out the rest of my days in peace, without being known as "Van Dort's crazy necrophiliac son." Of course, if I really want that, I'll probably have to change my name. . .
I just have to remember to stay positive and count my blessings. And also to stay on track. I saw the first few flakes of snow of the new winter drifting down tonight. Maybe I can hope to get out of here by spring.
maybe.
maybe.
***
We had our first real snowfall of the season today! Nothing too major -- nothing that impeded me getting home from Dr. Burton's, at any rate -- but it's clear that winter is indeed upon us. I'm glad that the heat in the house works just fine -- given some of the problems we've had with the plumbing, I was starting to worry.
I would say that things are going fairly well for me. My work with Dr. Burton is interesting and fulfilling (I actually rather like working with his machines! I never would have guessed), and every spare moment I have is spent improving myself. I would guess that the doctors would say I'm making excellent progress. I have to guess because I haven't heard from them in a while. I'm -- I'm trying to convince myself this is a good thing, that it means they trust us enough to take care of ourselves, but. . .
The fact of the matter is, I'd feel much more comfortable if someone were supervising us. That must sound a bit weird, coming from someone desperate to rejoin the "normal" world. But I'm rather worried about my fellow patients. They're acting even odder these days.
Take the piano. I'm not one to discourage musical enthusiasm, far from it! But -- someone's always on it. And they play until the very limits of their endurance. I love the piano, but even I get up when I feel I have to go to the toilet. It's like they're absolutely mesmerized by the instrument.
Take the piano. I'm not one to discourage musical enthusiasm, far from it! But -- someone's always on it. And they play until the very limits of their endurance. I love the piano, but even I get up when I feel I have to go to the toilet. It's like they're absolutely mesmerized by the instrument.
And when they're not playing, a lot of them just -- don't do anything. At all. They find a bed, lie down on it, and just -- stay there. I've nothing against daydreaming, either, but. . . This doesn't seem healthy.
If there's something important to be done, I have to do it. They won't even order food when the icebox is empty.
And when we do have food, they waste it cooking endless amounts of grilled cheese sandwiches. There's almost always a pile-up in the kitchen of people wanting to use the stove. I don't understand it! Surely they can see that someone else is already cooking?
Then again, I know they walk in on each other -- and me! -- in the shower, then act shocked that the other person is naked. I'm really starting to worry (and to feel quite embarrassed. The shower door should lock, at any rate!).
The worst is seeing the others in various states of unease. I've caught quite a few of them mumbling to themselves, talking about how they're not "living up to their potential." Not achieving their life's ambitions.
I even found poor Mike crying in the kitchen the other night, sobbing about how he should be home and providing for a family. I did my best to comfort him, but -- I'm not a psychiatrist. I can't heal a broken mind. And that's what's happening. Everyone's minds are breaking again. I'm starting to think many of them were sent here too early. The stress of being on their own is too much. I've got to find a way to talk to the doctors again. . . Please, sirs, if you are reading this, come and talk to the others, particularly Mike. They need help.
As for myself, I'm just going to do the best I can. I've survived worse than this. I've -- I've just got to keep going. Having a job helps a lot, and I'm very thankful they told me I could go to work. Maybe -- maybe I'll be a scientist myself one day. Wouldn't that be funny?
As it is, I've got to get to bed. I hope Albert won't mind me interrupting his reading too much. . .
As it is, I've got to get to bed. I hope Albert won't mind me interrupting his reading too much. . .
Sims Week 1 Completed
Progress Toward LTW:
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- Cooking 3
- Mechanical 3
- Charisma 2
- Body 1
- Logic 2
- Creativity 5
- Cleaning 5
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