XXXIV. Let Freedom Ring
Ahh, the prison of the privileged.
I am locked in house with nine other guys for my other job as a professional model on a reality tv show.
We must stay in the "compound" for a week. In fairness, this is a far cry from a prison. In here, there are very few knife fights and most of the sexual activity is consensual.
But, every night, right before sleep, I let out an animal cry of "Freeeeeedom!" as the camera zooms in on my mouth.
The psychological torture of confinement is insidious. At first, the well-stocked fridge and liquor cabinet keep you full of lotus, but then you start looking across the front lawn to a distant Texaco like it's Shangri-La.
Humans are strange that way. We can spend a week in our house voluntarily, but once we are told we can't leave, then we begin plans for a tunnel.
So what does a man do with a sudden glut of time? Write a historical novel? Meditate on meaning? Work on long-neglected physics problems? No.
Here is a typical schedule of my day. (Actually yesterday.)
4:30 a.m. Wake up. Eat cold lunch meat for breakfast.
5:30 to 10 a.m. Various calisthenics & dodgeball
10:01 a.m. Stare out window.
10:35 a.m. Get in the bathtub.
11:26 a.m. Turn on faucet and fill tub.
11:32 a.m. Remember to remove clothes.
Noon Eat 4-5 pounds of lunch meat.
12:30 p.m. Eat more lunch meat.
1 p.m. Play tetherball by myself in back yard.
1:45 p.m. Slump in corner of master closet and cry.
2 p.m. Count hairs on my head to have "Godlike Knowledge."
3:15 p.m. Regret living.
3:20 p.m. Count roommate's back hairs for "Satan-like Knowledge."
4 p.m. Write disjointed notes to loved ones containing vague apologies.
5:30 p.m. Sign up for nightly knife fight.
6 p.m. Make a run for the Texaco. Get shot in leg.
9 p.m. Watch Lost.
10:37 p.m. Cry self to sleep after consensual but unnatural activity.
There have been so many times that I have wished for a suspension of responsibility and simply time to think, but it doesn't change things much. You avoid the things you thought "life" was keeping you from doing, and you long for the responsibility and a feeling of usefulness.
And I bet they even have Ding Dongs at that Texaco ...
I am locked in house with nine other guys for my other job as a professional model on a reality tv show.
We must stay in the "compound" for a week. In fairness, this is a far cry from a prison. In here, there are very few knife fights and most of the sexual activity is consensual.
But, every night, right before sleep, I let out an animal cry of "Freeeeeedom!" as the camera zooms in on my mouth.
The psychological torture of confinement is insidious. At first, the well-stocked fridge and liquor cabinet keep you full of lotus, but then you start looking across the front lawn to a distant Texaco like it's Shangri-La.
Humans are strange that way. We can spend a week in our house voluntarily, but once we are told we can't leave, then we begin plans for a tunnel.
So what does a man do with a sudden glut of time? Write a historical novel? Meditate on meaning? Work on long-neglected physics problems? No.
Here is a typical schedule of my day. (Actually yesterday.)
4:30 a.m. Wake up. Eat cold lunch meat for breakfast.
5:30 to 10 a.m. Various calisthenics & dodgeball
10:01 a.m. Stare out window.
10:35 a.m. Get in the bathtub.
11:26 a.m. Turn on faucet and fill tub.
11:32 a.m. Remember to remove clothes.
Noon Eat 4-5 pounds of lunch meat.
12:30 p.m. Eat more lunch meat.
1 p.m. Play tetherball by myself in back yard.
1:45 p.m. Slump in corner of master closet and cry.
2 p.m. Count hairs on my head to have "Godlike Knowledge."
3:15 p.m. Regret living.
3:20 p.m. Count roommate's back hairs for "Satan-like Knowledge."
4 p.m. Write disjointed notes to loved ones containing vague apologies.
5:30 p.m. Sign up for nightly knife fight.
6 p.m. Make a run for the Texaco. Get shot in leg.
9 p.m. Watch Lost.
10:37 p.m. Cry self to sleep after consensual but unnatural activity.
There have been so many times that I have wished for a suspension of responsibility and simply time to think, but it doesn't change things much. You avoid the things you thought "life" was keeping you from doing, and you long for the responsibility and a feeling of usefulness.
And I bet they even have Ding Dongs at that Texaco ...
posted by Clubber Lang at 10:24 AM
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