Letters from the Lunar Outpost

Most men know what they hate, few know what they love.
- Colton, English Sportsman and Writer (1780-1832)

After I had regained consciousness enough to swoon for the sweet nurse who had kept me steadily hydrated with juices and after the huffy heifer and her hours of stinginess was done I was told that once all the alcohol was out of my system, there would be a lady to come talk to me, a psychologist I assumed, and we could see where we would go from there.

I was pretty clear what this all meant: it was going to be up to the psychologist’s assessment whether she felt that I was no longer a threat to myself and could be released on my own recognizance or if she felt I needed to be kept for some longer term care.

The two roads diverging could not be any more distinct, do I say – a) I was just on a good one and talking some drunken shit and really have no intention of harming myself, or do I choose b) and totally come clean that I had laid the groundwork and removed all obligations for my own suicide.

And in a moment of optimism and with a glimmer of happiness I chose to tell the lady the thruth, knowing it would land me up in the mental hospital.

(continued . . . )

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