text: **"Green," the patient replied, so thoroughly convinced of his answer that he said without even a moment's hesitation. This was the third time they had tried the crayon test and he still wasn’t showing any sign of improvement. Michael sighed, trying to keep his exasperation as slight as possible.** **He had to remember that this man suffered from a debilitating neurological disorder that caused one to see and experience things the way they were. Some suffered from this disease more than others; many merly lapsing into employing logic or making a factual statement on occasion like a mental hiccup, but resuming a normal state immediately after. Others showed symptoms more consistently, but could be easily coaxed out of it each time. Michael Gumstead's current patient was what most would consider a helpless case, and the more the usually dauntless Doctor Gumstead worked with him, the more he was starting to agree.** **"We've been over this," he said. "It's yellow."** **Doctor Gumstead put the crayon back into the box and pulled out a blue one.** **"How about this one?" He asked.** **"Blue." The patient replied.** **"White," the doctor corrected, his sigh a bit more audible this time. The weather was undoubtedly contributing to his foul mood. He found himself wishing that time had ended yesterday when it was hot and sunny. Yesterday had been his day off and he spent much of it outside, revealing in the wonderfully intense, skin-charing heat; enjoying the suffocating sensation of his clothes fusing to his skin while prickly-inch ravaged his crotch. The earthly incarnation of Heaven.** **Today was a direct opposite; the air was crisp, cool and, worst of all, breathable and the sun was slightly obscured by clouds, denying him the pleasure of having abrasive sun-rays penetrate his eyes like fiery daggers. Instead, his surroundings were rendered disgustingly seeable while the slight chill in the air filled him with a loathsome feeling of life and vitality. Of course, the patient he was working with wasn't helping much either. It was funny how someone referred to as a "patient" could make you feel anything but.** **This patient was strange in many ways; he was one of those that actually preferred the horrendous livable weather to the pleasantly soul-scorching days that every normal human being full-heartedly embraced. He was also a vegan as he considered the consumption of flesh and bodily fluids to be "kinda gross". Ironically, while he considered that gross, his diet consisted of plants; green things that sprouted from the dirt and contained neither blood nor mucus (okra being the only exception). The mere thought of such a diet made Doctor Gumstead feel nauseous.** **In one of several unsuccessful attempts to bring the patient back into normality, he had offered him a bite of his ham sandwich and when the offer was inevitably declined, Michael, not being one to skirt around the issues, asked very plainly why. This conversation was what followed:** **"I don't like meat."** **"Why not?"** **"It doesn't appeal to me."** **"Let's not be vague; if I'm to help you, I must know more about your illness. Trust me."** **"I don't even know what illness I have."** **Michael had expected that. Few patients were able to accept their condition right off the bat.** **"It's something you're going to have to face sometime or another and the longer you put it off, the more difficult it's going to be. Now why doesn't it appeal to you? I must insist on a straight answer."** **The doctor's permission had evidently emboldened the patient to speak more candidly, "I find it more than a little gross. You're eating slices of someone's body."** **"Is that any different from what you're eating? What's the difference between cutting the head off a cow and cutting off a head of lettuce?"** **The patient was confused. This was made evident by his reply--"Huh?"** **The one saving grace of those with his disorder is that they are very easy to confuse.** **"I’m examining the hypocrisy of your position; you find it disgusting to eat animal bodies but are fine with eating decaying plant bodies."** **"I don't eat them when they're decaying," said the patient, elaborating his backward point of view.** **"Plants do decay, do they not?" Gumstead insisted, eyeing his patient with fierce scrutiny.** **"Yes, but I--"** **"So you eat decaying plants,"** **The patient started stupidly at him, then opened his mouth as if to respond, then let his head drop to his chest, managing only a weak, "Sure."** **Ah, progress.** **"And meat decays too, so it’s essentially the same thing."** **The patient raised his head slowly as if he were struggling with the weight of his own skull. Doctor Gumstead was slightly offended; what right did he have to be tired? If anyone had the right to be exhausted, it was the good doctor.** **"Well," the patient began, "I guess it's because nature intended them to be eaten, by humans I mean--"** **"And animals aren't?"** **"Not when you get right down to it. When you consider that the seeds in fruit are--"** **"Animals were meant to be eaten," doctor Gunstead interrupted, not willing to put up any more deluded ravings, "why else would they be marketed as food?"** **"Profit," came the predictable answer. People with this condition held on to a paranoiac belief that corporations are run for the sake of a profit without necessarily being interested in the public's well being which, to be fair, was sometimes true, but not when it suited Michael Gumstead to believe otherwise. In any case, it was nothing that a bit of positive thinking couldn’t fix.** **Gradually, the topic of the discussion came to focus on life's imperfections, which was just where doctor Gumstead had hoped the conversation would lead, as he had recently taken a vehement interest in spirituality; not organized religion, of course, which was just a celestial form of brainwashing, but real spirituality; the logical kind that respected the intelligence of the individual and worked for the betterment of mankind as a whole rather than a perverse desire to control others. It was rather unorthodox to treat a patient according to the spiritual teachings, but nothing else had worked so far, so he gave it a try. He asked the patient about any personal problems he may have had in the past that might still be influencing his behavior today.** **The patient pondered for a moment then said, "Well, back in--"** ***"NOOOOOOOO*****," Doctor Gumstead bellowed, "it only seeeeeeemed that waaaaaaay because of your negatiiiiiiiiive perceeeeeeeeption."** **"I didn't even tell yo--"** **"You'rrrrrrre respooooooooonsiblllllllllle for yoooou'rrrrre owwwwwwwwn experieeeeeeeeeeence," said Doctor Gumstead, proud of himself for having remembered to gratuitously elongate nearly every word; an intricate part of any spiritual lecture, "The “prooooobleeeeeeem” you** ***thiiiiiiiink*** **you haaaaad would neverrrrrrr have exiiiiiiiiisteeeeeed had you not acknooooowledged it in the firrrrrrrrst plaaaaaaaaaaaace!"** **"You mean, I wouldn't have broken my leg skiing that day had I simply not noticed it?"** ***"Yes!"*** **Doctor Gumstead almost shouted, astounded by his patient’s inability to figure out the obvious. Gumstead’s heart sank just a bit as he realised his mistake in letting the patient finish a sentence, which is as much a taboo in the spiritual realm as logical consistency. This mistake at first prompted Doctor Gumstead to think that he was not yet ready to apply his spiritual lessons to everyday matters, but then, upon realizing that centering advice on something you know little to nothing about was about the most spiritual thing one could do, he knew he was on the right track.** **The patient stared at him for a moment and finally said, "But how--?"** **"I don't know why you have to take such a hostile position," Doctor Gumstead said quickly.** **"I'm a little confused," the patient said, "How could I have noticed my injury before--"** **"I’ll have to cut this session short," said Gunstead, "if you continue with that hostile tone."** **"What hostility?" The patient demanded rather hostility, "I was simply pointing out illogicality of--"** **"OK, so now you’re insulting me. It's little outbursts like that that got you sent here in the first place."** **The outburst to which doctor Michael Gumstead had referred had taken place at the patient's place of employment where he had questioned the need to update the "perfectly good" software of each company computer in order to make them more difficult to use. His employers tried their best to explain how the functional software was now well out of date, having been in existence for more than three minutes, whereas the update would needlessly complicate each task for the convenience of every employee.** **Somehow this logic, as sound as it was, didn't satisfy him and he exposed his unstable mental condition with the decolonization that the explanation didn't "make sense", after which he proceeded into an incoherent rant about how newer wasn't inherently better, and how it “actually needed to improve on something”.** **Soon, the entire office had gathered around the post-patient to try and understand just what in the hell he was talking about. Needless to say, no one understood a thing. Everything he said made too much sense for anyone to make sense of.** **His office manager had tried especially hard to comprehend his position, but every attempt at an explanation proved futile, difficulty in communication being another common symptom. Finally, the office manager; name of George, made him take the rest of the day off, believing that his inexplicable outburst of critical-thinking was merely exhaustion brought on by overwork.** **His wife was the first to witness the full extent of her husband's insanity. It came when she asked him to fill up the bathtub for her and he did so, prompting him to wonder why he hadn't started making the enchiladas that she had requested for dinner and why he was pouring a bath so early in the evening. His perplexing response was as follows: "You told me to draw a bath."** **The wife, Isabelle, replied, "But that wasn’t what I** ***meant*****."** **When he asked Isabelle why she didn't say what she meant, she backed away from him; slowly at first, then made a quick dash to the bedroom, where she locked herself inside and called the police.** **Now here was Michael Gumstead; trying to reason with a man who probably couldn't be reasoned with. Gumstead had started the case fully and enthusiastically embracing the challenge, but now it was getting to the point where he was beginning to question his own sanity.** **"You have been hostile to people," Gumstead insisted, "don't try to tell me otherwise. You are capable of hostility."** **"Um, sure. So that means that I'm hostile in every instance of my life?"** ***"Yes!"*** **Gumstead said excitedly, barely suppressing a mirthless laugh. He couldn't believe this really had to be explained, "You've been displaying copious quantities of hostility since you arrived here! With your relentless questions and endless scrutiny. Disputing my authority and undermining me at every turn!"** **We are allllllllllllll of one consciousness;" Gumstead said, quickly preventing the patient from saying anything else, "we are aaaaaall perfect! We are aaaaaall compleeeeeeeetelyyyyyyyyy eeee-*****qual!*****”Gumstead made sure to state how equal they were with the most smugly condescending tone and smile he could manage. It was always important for the spiritually evolved to let people know that they were just a little more completely equal than those around them, “buuuuut if I didn't teeeeeeeell yooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu, what your** ***thooooouuuuughts*****,** ***feeliiiiiiiiiiiiings*** **and** ***intentioooooooooooons*** **are than hoooooooow would you** ***everrrrrr*** **knoooooooow?"** **"I'm sure I know my own thoughts, feelings and intentions." He was getting frustrated. A definite sign of hostility.** **This time Gumstead didn't bother hiding his sigh at this poor, silly, deluded man as he pondered what he could say that would get through to him.** **"Don't be so hostile." He said at last.** **A week went by with no noticeable improvements. If anything, his hyper-sensitivity had gotten worse. When Doctor Gumstead was having his lunch, the patient, in a fit of entitlement, asked if he could close his mouth when he chewed. Doctor Gumstead reacted by chewing louder; “In Norway, it’s considered a compliment to chew as loudly as possible,” he explained, “and I’m not going to stop being polite just because you don’t like it.”** **“It is not polite precisely** ***because*** **you** ***know*** **that I don’t like it!” Portested the patient.** **Doctor Gumstead said with a tight smile that would seem patronizing to lesser sentient beings, but which was actually very evolved and free of the slightest hint of judgment; “what’s polite and what isn't doesn’t change to match your feelings. Politeness was invented to show respect. Respect, I will argue, is about the most important thing one human being can have for another; it’s the cornerstone of our civilization, and why shouldn’t it be? It helps to be courteous to those around us; to eliminate the potential tensions and live in harmony with those we encounter in our daily lives, so with that in mind, I will force my respect on you whether you like it or not!”** **The patient slumped in his chair, his chin nearly reaching his chest.** ***So damn dramatic,*** **Doctor Gumstead thought, rolling his eyes. He made sure the patient saw it as that was often worked as a way to deter further arguments, then he resumed eating his sandwich, making each chew louder than the last.** **Within the next week, they had tried shock-therapy, past regression therapy and speaking in patronizing tones whenever he had expressed a coherent thought, and he had managed to resist every step of the way. Doctor Gumstead had considered temporarily forgetting his compassionate nature and employing corporeal punishment, but had always managed to resist the urge.** **Michael Gumstead returned to work feeling an odd emotion composed of being simultaneously fatigued and refreshed. He was fatigued for the most obvious reason-- his pain-in-the-ass patient, though, thankfully, this would be the last day that he would have to work with him. They would go through the motions once more and then he would write him off as a helpless case. Sadly, every alternative, much like Doctor Gumstead himself, had been completely exhausted. The simultaneous feeling of exuberance came from having had his opinion swayed by an interview he saw on television; they were interviewing the now notorious Narvadan prosecutor, Christopher Butterfield, who had just gotten a death sentence for a man that had strangled his wife to death with a phone cord.** **The prosecutor was under fire by a small percentage of the public for organizing a celebration party when the verdict was announced; the party had shot-glasses designed to look like syringes and a cake that was in the form of a tombstone, pictures of which were proudly uploaded to Facebook along with a video in which Mr. Butterfield, clad in a blond wig and formal blue dress, doing a mocking impression of the condemned man's sister for the amusement of his guests. Some people, the family of the condemned included, saw fit to question Mr. Butterfield's ethics. Doctor Gumstead counted himself among them; a prosecutor who would stoop so low couldn't be any better than the remorseless killer he had put on death-row.** **Still, he listened attentively while the prosecutor made his case; "I showed the offender exactly the same amount of mercy he showed his victim," Butterfield had said, "if you want to say I'm crass and maybe a little callous because of the way I conducted myself at a private party, fine. Just keep in mind how callous it was for that vermin to coldly and meticulously wrap a phone cord around Ms. Stratten's neck and squeeze until all the life drained from her body while she struggled, helpless and frightened. I'll bet the Stratten family are suffering too, but, of course, nobody cares about them. Nobody in the entirety of human history has ever cared about the victim, but I've been doing my damndest to try and change that!” At this point, tears formed in his eyes and his voice shook with uncontrolled emotion.“I gues**s **I just care** ***too much*** **about human life!" he bawled.** **The more parallels Christopher Butterfield drew between himself and the scum he had put on death-row, the more Doctor Gumstead came to realize that he had misjudged the noble prosecutor. Chris Butterfield was really a very compassionate man, he was just fed up with the way the media had always given sympathy and recognition to violent criminals while treating the victims and their families with cold indifference. He knew the media didn’t care about the victims of violent crime because TV and radio networks would helpfully remind him. Gumstead decided that Mr. Butterfield was a great attorney after all, and he did a pretty good female-impersonator to boot! Doctor Gumstead felt good knowing that he had been proven wrong. He liked knowing that he was never too wise to learn.** **The doctor entered the small chilly room where the patient was waiting. The patient looked the way the doctor felt; haggard, exhausted and eager to get the day over with. Doctor Gumstead produced a purple crayon from his pocket. "What color is this?" He asked in a dismal monotone.** **"Orange." Said the patient.** **Doctor Gumstead reached for the next crayon then stopped, unsure of what he had just heard. He asked again and this time got "Green". Gumstead looked at the crayon then looked back at the patient. His hope suddenly renewed for the first time in months. Excitedly he produced a green crayon.** **"Brown." Said the patient.** ***I’ll be damned!*** **Though Doctor Gumstead,** ***I will be DAMNED!*** **The breakthrough that he had been hoping for, but thought unobtainable had been reached! Gumstead couldn’t hide his excitement. He vibrated in his chair and grinned like a rambunctious child as he produced an orange crayon--"No color," the patient said, "it's transparent."** **Doctor Gumstead jumped from his seat and shouted something to the equivalent of “Yahoooooo!” Had he been wearing a hat, he would have beaten it against the side of his pants. He called up Mr. Mondale, the head of the hospital, and asked him to come down as soon as he could.** **"Which way is up?" Asked Gumstead.** **"Down." The patient responded.** **"Which way is left?" Asked Gumstead.** **"Right." The patient responded.** **"When is today?" Gumstead asked.** **"Yesterday;" the patient responded, "today was already tomorrow."** **“How would you describe the name Caroline?” asked doctor Gumstead.** **“A beautiful name for a beautiful person.” the patient said.** **It was then that doctor Gumstead began nudging Mr. Mondale in the ribs while saying, "Huh? Huh?"** **Mr. Mondale was impressed. He gave doctor Gumstead a firm handshake and enthusiastic congratulations. Then, just for the hell of it, a hug and a big sloppy kiss on the cheek...and he wasn't even Italian!** **The following week, they brought the patient in to meet with the country's foremost experts on human psychology to show them the results. After performing a series of cartwheels, backflips and aerial somersaults in an uncontrollably robust display of joy, they unanimously agreed that the patient, this David Miller, was finally ready to be reintroduced to the outside world.** **Doctor Gumstead wished David Miller luck and sent him on his way. For the next couple months, doctor Gumstead would respond to every mention of the word "hero" with an embarrassed smile and a modest shake of his head. "I just did my job." he would say, "I was on the verge of giving up, but then I got lucky."** **Still, Michael Gumstead would have been lying if he said that he didn't feel some sense of pride as he watched David Miller walk backwards through the gates of the institution with his backpack wrapped around his chest and his eyes staring directly into the mid-afternoon sun.** **Once a mental defect, now fit for normal society.