Shaken, Not Stirred

My emotions have always been a complex thing, so complex that it would seem absurd to use a simple word as complex to describe their complexity, but complex is the only word on the lips of the doctors who have tried to help.  I scoff at the simpletons who still believe me to be in the realm of having the capaciy to be helped.  

They dropped me in a mental institution when they couldn't figure it out on the first, second or third try.  The words "Mental institution" are quite ironic and contradictory, in that they send people there to escape their mindsets.  However, literally speaking, a mental institution should be a place inside of one's own head, taking the terms mental and institution and taking them literally, but when was the last time that anyone did that?  

To be taken literally, one would consider me a white girl with medium length brown hair.  Green eyes fill the sockets of my oval-shaped head, and a nose that would be not too big nor too small.  Jawbones are high on my face, buried shallowly in my cheeks, almost protruding from the flesh.  My stature is medium, like my hair, only my legs are the longer parts of my body, as opposed to my torso.  I have a below-average breast size, although I never gave it much consideration, and a flat stomach.  I have been given a name, but I refuse to answer to it.  It is just another way for them to label me, but if I had to let them, I would have been called Cindra McAdams.

The End

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