I am Bob. I am Bob. My name is Bob. Although yesterday it was Harvey, and tomorrow it will be Randall, for now my name is Bob. Each day I choose a new name, it’s part of my condition. But it’s not really a condition, I consider it vacation.
Where I live the walls are white. Just white. I don’t know why. When I asked them why they’re white, they tell me they’re not white. They tell me they’re beige. Call it what you will, they’re white. But beige is soothing, they tell me. I tell them so is sex, but I don’t want to have it 24/7.
The rooms are always four walls. Always four walls. Every room is four walls, even if they’re not beige. I sometimes wonder why there aren’t three walled rooms. I think triangle rooms would be unique, but a bit dull as time goes on. And I’d color them anything other then beige.
But my name is Bob, like I said. I am Bob. Everyday my friends have to ask me what my name is. Every morning is something new. And if they aren’t around for breakfast, they have to ask me at lunch. This happens a lot here, we wonder away in the day, and we get in trouble for it. I tell them we wouldn’t wonder if we weren’t spaced out all day.
It’s the drugs, by the way, that space us out. Well, actually I’ve never spaced out, I’ve never taken the drugs. Never have. Never do. Because I’m on vacation, remember?
I wear white a lot. Scratch that, I wear beige a lot. But it’s still white. White shirts. They tear easily though. They are made so they tear, the same thing with the sheets. They make them that way, in case we try to hang ourselves. We try to hang ourselves a lot. Well, they try to hang themselves a lot, Bob doesn’t hang himself. And since the sheets and shirts tear, sometimes they have to improvise. But Bob’s never tried to hang himself.
And you know what the weird thing is? I’m not crazy. Nope, not a bit. I’m right as rain up in the old noodle-noggin. I put myself in here. I’m a volunteer. It’s my vacation.
They insist I’m not crazy. I insist I am. But I know I’m not crazy, I just insist I am. But I like it here. I like the beige. I like the tears. I like the four-corner rooms. But most of all, I like being Sam. I like being Frank. I like being James and Harvey and Randall.
And I like the name Bob. I like Bob. Because Bob doesn’t try to hang himself. And they call me Bob. They all call me Bob. I am Bob...
