George is a normal man ... for a schizophrenic. Perhaps the psychiatrist diagnosed him with that label because it was like trying to fit a rectangle into a square. I don't think there is a true label that fits George.Like most randy, American males, George is fond of boobs. The problem is that he is very fond of his niece's boobs. My cousin Lisa, his niece, still hides from him to this day. He'd come to visit Lisa regularly in the hopes of catching her in a tank top on a hot day. Being the smaller chested niece, I was able to back out of the conversations, invisibly, while George drooled at the outlines of Lisa's breasts. I found other things to do in the meantime like make a sandwich, watch TV, read, or sit, very still, so as to disappear while I feigned intent listening skills. Often George would talk about religion to anyone who would listen. I guess that meant no one in particular.
Religion is George's new crutch. The way I figure it is that maybe he's sinned so bad that he now has to make up for it by talking about God for hours at a time. Maybe, like a jealous person who profusely compliments the beauty queen, George pretends not to be as guilty as he is.
George's obsession with religion and his compulsion to become Christ-like got the best of him one day. Funny, he's since not been as vocal about God. Let me backtrack to what happened. Apparently George tried to emulate the most noble "characters" in the bible who, besides being faithful and benevolent, held another characteristic in common, circumcision.
George never had much money. He'd fried his brains on drugs and alcohol; he was a real free spirit in the 70's. His wild ways made him a damaged spirit in the year 2005 when he decided to circumcise himself in order to save money. Who needs doctors? No one knows whether he used a knife, a razor, or a bottle cap, but he did it. He made himself like the heroes in the bible who sacrificed pain and body parts to be closer to Christ. So too, George thought, must he.
George spent a while in the hospital. I can only imagine the conversations between his nurses, doctors and roommate. How could George begin to explain his predicament?
George to roommate: "Hi nice to meet you. What are you in here for?"
Roommate: "Gall bladder. You?"
George: "Minor mishap. Some cuts and scratches."
George has since recovered from his "surgery," but he still employs his own version of reality whose boundaries aren't understood by anyone else.
