I never found the Pope

The anti-psychosis medication that D. feeds me doesn't always do the job, mostly because I refuse to swallow it. This can lead to some interesting behavior on my part: intense paranoia, visual and auditory hallucinations, out-of-control rages, and reckless helicoptering. Of course, I only know this anecdotally; my sister is very colorful in her words when she tells me of my latest "spell".

Apparently I succombed to such a spell yesterday afternoon. After another unappetizing lunch of foie gras (the crushed pills always make it taste gamey), I stood up from the table and started clawing at the wall, convinced the remains of Pope John Paul II were buried within. D. laughed and told me to take my antics elsewhere. So down to the third floor I went.

I broke into a tenant's apartment and made a beeline to the bathroom. I took one look around and suddenly it made perfect sense: The Pope is hidden behind the bathtub! Using only my bare hands, I tore out a chunk of drywall behind the tub and furiously pulled at the exposed plumbing. Of course, I burned my hand pretty badly on the hot water pipe. That's when D. walked in and began screaming at me.

My sister made me write the tenant a fake note from our plumber so as not to arouse suspicion. The good news is that D. took this as an opportunity to install a brand-new expensive showerhead above the tenant's tub. D. said she'd surprise the tenant with an invoice later - "the gift that keeps on giving" is how she put it, whatever that means.