the institute

i've been here for half an hour and i'm already wanting to go. i wanted to go when i stepped through the heavy wood doors and found out my sister wasn't here anymore. i think she's the only reason i stick around. everyone else makes me angry.

i can smell the chemicals from the bathroom. they're mingling with the cigarette smell of the clients who will quit after this pack runs out. or the next. it's making my already angry stomach churn.

i can smell the cologne of the cleaning boy and his drug addict peers who are all trying to manipulate me.

"do you like bob dylan?"
"yes... you're not supposed to be talking."
"i like him, too."

the smell reminds me of when i was their age. i probably would have had a crush on them back then. now i see them and all of their problems and it makes me angry. how could they throw their lives away? mike was like that. he was pretty and manipulative and he smelled good. in the end, it was heroin that took him away. he died. don't they know mike died?

i thought everyone knew.

i have a lot to do to night, at work and after-- three charts to build, a treatment plan, whatever else She tells me to do. after i get home i have some chaucer to memorize and a project do do for film.

there's one client who always wears the same green shirt. does he have a lot of identical green shirts he cycles through? is it like the simpsons, where he opens his closet and it's just a row of green polo shirts and jeans?

"the hunter or the forest today?"

i contemplate on this while i rock in my chair, having to go to the bathroom so bad "my teeth are swimming." chelsey said that once. i thought it was gross. i love her, though. i don't want to go to the bathroom. in the dorms it took twelve steps to get to the bathroom from my chair. twelve steps. but first you had to admit you had a problem.

ironic.