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Jesus In the Psych Ward "My dad—he used to call me a pussy. He liked to ram the message home, hard. That's why I'm here," my roommate tells me, not mentioning how he snorted Ritalin then stole the Holy Water from St. Jude's. I press him about it and he confesses, "Sometimes I think I'm Jesus." I try not to stare at the gashes on his forearms, try to ignore the yeast infection on his tongue. Behind barred windows, we all ooze something, so I concoct my own princely stories and tell him lithium pacifies my Gandhi. This makes both of us feel at ease. Besides, I figure he could be the One.
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