It was Valentine's Day, but fortunately, this year, I was going to do something fun. A business opportunity suddenly presented itself and I was off to sunny California. Finally, I'd be leaving my loneliness behind and forgetting about my ex-girlfriend by taking a trip to the West Coast. I haven't been there in ages and I was excited. Instead of hanging around my apartment, missing my ex-girlfriend and feeling sorry for myself, I was going to do something positive this Valentine's Day, even if it meant I'd be doing it alone, again.

Who knows, maybe I'll meet someone on the plane or after I arrived there. I was tired of watching this neighbor pickup his girlfriend with a limousine to whisk her off to dinner or watching that neighbor greet his girlfriend with flowers and candy. Then, when Valentine's Day was over, I'd have to relive my loneliness by listening to all my friends and relatives ask me what I did for Valentine's Day before excitedly telling me what they did, what presents they gave, and what gifts they received. It was depressing. I hate how I feel so alone when I'm not with someone to share my life, especially on Valentine's Day. It was time that I got up off the couch and took control of my life again.

As excited as I was about flying to California, I was more excited about making some money with my business. Only, my business trip ended abruptly earlier than anticipated, when the principal investor, who was to attend my meeting, had taken ill. Alone with my bad self, suddenly, I was depressed again. I couldn't leave my loneliness behind. I couldn't run from it. It had followed me and now, it was here with me in Los Angeles. I don't know which is worse, being alone and lonely in New York on Valentine's Day or being alone and lonely in Los Angeles on Valentine's Day.

I was going to return to New York until the familiar sights and sounds of Park Avenue, Madison Avenue, Fifth Avenue, Seventh Avenue, and Central Park suddenly chilled me to the bone with boredom. An exciting city to experience when sharing my life with someone, it is sad to walk the city streets alone while watching other couples having fun. Instead of returning home, I figured, what the Hell, I'm here. I'll rent a car and see some of the sights. It was a nice driving the busy freeways of California instead of negotiating the gridlocked streets of New York.

After buying a map and taking the celebrity home tour and quickly becoming lost in Bel Air, Beverly Hills, and Hollywood Hills, and not seeing anything more than high, locked gates and no trespassing signs, I decided to drive north. I was fortunate enough to have the time to make a visit to wine country in Napa Valley, California. Even though it was quite a distance from LA, 360 miles to be exact, the trip was worth it and I recommend it to anyone who loves wine.

You don't have to love wine or to be with someone special to have a good time touring the vineyards, even though it would have been more fun had I had someone to share the experience. The people who toured the vineyards with me were friendly and I had a great time. On the way there, I took the coastal route north and enjoyed the view of the Pacific Ocean most of the trip. Looking out at the ocean as I drove was relaxing and both my ex-girlfriend and Valentine's Day were distant memories.

I stayed at a beautiful place, a quaint little inn along a winding country road. Only, especially on this special day of days for lovers, the charming accommodations made me wish I had someone with me to share it. All of the guests staying at the inn were couples and the inn was decorated accordingly with Valentine's Day colors of red and white. Even my room had Valentine's chocolates and red and white carnations. I ate the chocolates and dumped the flowers.

There'd be no way that I'd be going downstairs for dinner later. I'll buy a couple nice bottles from the vineyard and order up room service. Celebrating Valentine's Day alone here should be better than celebrating Valentine's Day alone at home. I'll make my own memories and maybe one day, I'll have someone to share this memory with by telling her about the time I toured wine country. Who knows, maybe I'll revisit this place with my special someone, one day.

They gave me a map of the vineyards and directed me where to go to receive the best experience in the shortest amount of time. I had a great time and with every sip of wine, I felt more relaxed. Some of the wines I tasted were on par with some of the best from France and Italy. Only, every time I drove from where I was staying and back again that evening, I couldn't help but notice three very large brick chimneys in the distance. It's funny how, because I was so enjoying the beautiful countryside that I hadn't noticed them at first. Now, they intruded upon my scenic view and much like a very tall person standing in a crowd of very short people, I couldn't help but focus on them while wondering what they were.

It was odd to see such a large building commanding the skyline of this beautiful countryside landscape. It didn't belong. About a mile away, the building was situated atop a high hill. If it loomed this large from a distance, I couldn't imagine how big it must be up close. It was a haunting sight that made me curious enough to want to learn more about it. Actually, all that I could see of it was the roof and part of the top floor. The roof, once copper, now showed its age with a weathered green patina. It was obvious that it was an old building built, probably, in the late 1800's.

"What is that building in the distance," I asked the person at the front desk of the inn.

"Mama Mia. Loco, mucho loco." he said making the sign of the cross. "We don't talk of it," he said. "The patients have taken over the asylum."

"It was once a state mental hospital," said an elderly gentleman sitting with his wife on the couch in the front parlor. "Then, when Governor Schwarzenegger took office, slashed the budget, and the state could no longer afford to keep so many of these places operational, they sold the building to a private party, a rich psychiatrist, who is said to be as crazy as his patients. No one goes up there. No one knows what goes on there, but from the screams sometimes heard in the distance, it's not good."

Now, my curiosity was peaked. I had just started writing for Writerotica and needed inspiration for a good story. Certainly, a mental hospital that was now a private sanitarium would have plenty of stories to tell. I wondered if they'd let me interview some of the patients, the non-violent ones, of course.

The next morning, I drove the steep hill to the hospital. The view from up here was incredible. I could see the entire valley. I wished I had taken my camera, but I left it in my room. No doubt, having such a beautiful view of the valley every day would help cure those who were patients of this hospital.

Once at the top of the hill, my first thought was that there was no security. The front gate was rusted wide open. The grounds and building were in disrepair and judging by the few vehicles in the parking lot, there weren't enough employees to staff such a large building. Even with the Valentine's Day decorations that dotted some of the windows, I had a foreboding feeling of uneasiness and felt as if someone was watching me.

Hotel California by the Eagles was eerily playing in the background on my car radio as I neared and after seeing the building close up; I couldn't help but make the connection.

"On a dark deserted highway...I saw a shimmering light...I had to stop for the night...this could be Heaven and this could be Hell...there were voices in the corridor, I thought I heard them say...Welcome to the Hotel to California ...such a lovely place...and still those voices are calling from far away, wake you up in the middle of the night, just to hear them say...Welcome to the site of Writerotica...Happy Valentine's Day. Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. Relax said the night man, we are programmed to receive. You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave!"

The last line of their song, "You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave," stayed with me. It was a haunting line. I imagined all those patients who were signed in by a relative, who came here against their will, and who were never allowed to see the outside of this building again. By the appearance of the grounds, I imagined no one coming to see them.

If I thought I was alone and lonely on Valentine's Day, after breaking up with my girlfriend, I couldn't imagine being locked up here. How awful was that? I couldn't imagine being locked up day after day. Certainly, being kept in a mental hospital is worse than being in prison. I should have a problem, I thought. Isn't it funny how someone else's sad little life, when it is worse than yours, can sometimes make you feel better about your sad little life?

I parked my car in the guest parking space by the front of the building, walked to the front entrance, and opened the door. Gees, even here, a Happy Valentine's Banner decorated with red and white balloons greeted me, as I climbed the dirty stairs. If I wasn't depressed before, I was depressed now being reminded how alone and lonely I was at Valentine's Day. An older, albeit still beautiful, blonde woman of fading beauty, resplendent in a starched, white uniform, walked around from her desk and met me by the front door.

I was so lonely that I wondered why she was doing tonight. I imagined asking her back to my room at the inn and polishing off the bottles of wine I bought at the vineyard today. I could always return there tomorrow to replenish my supply of wine. Only, as I got a better look at her, she looked better from a distance...of about a quarter mile.

Her hair was matted to one side of her head. It looked as if she had slept on it after applying too much hairspray and didn't take the time to brush it out. She was wearing a bit too much red rouge and her lipstick was smeared a bit above her lip. All she needed was a big bow in her hair to remind me of Bette Davis in Whatever Happened To Baby Jane. From a distance, she could have passed for someone in her fifties but, upon closer examination, she was probably in her seventies. Her nametag read, Flaurel. It was an uncommon enough name to make me wonder if it was just a coincidence.

"Are you here to see someone," she said with a smile that showed a bit of lipstick on her teeth.

"Actually, no, I'm here from New York enjoying a mini-vacation after my business plans fell through. I was just curious what this place was," I said. Nervously uncomfortable, when she stared behind me without responding, I turned to see what she was staring at, but there was no one there. Feeling pressured to say more, I turned back to her and smiled. "I'm staying at the inn down the road and every time I drive to and from my inn, I notice your chimneys. I couldn't help but wonder what this place is," I said with an uncomfortable laugh.

She stared behind me again without saying anything. It was unnerving. Then, she started chattering in a loud voice. Much in the way of a demented teacher who has taught children all of her life and who sometimes reverts to acting like a child when she is dealing with adults in the real world, I figured she's been around these patients too long. Then, I wondered if lunacy was contagious. I took a step back, just in case it was.

"Yes, well, we are MHEOW," she said lifting her hand and swiping the air with it in the way that a cat would meow and swipe at someone or something. I couldn't help but think her behavior was more than a bit odd.

"MHEOW? What does that mean?" Again, when she stared behind me and didn't answer my question, I felt pressured to elaborate. "Does that stand for something? Is that an acronym for something?"

When she just stood there and stared at me without answering my questions, I suddenly had the feeling to just leave. And in hindsight, I should have, had I known what this place was and what was to happen to me in the immediate future.

"We are a mental health establishment for older writers, MHEOW," she said again and again motioning another swipe with her hand. Her delayed responses and mannerisms were disconcerting to say the least and, by her behavior, I wondered if she possessed all her faculties.

"Really." Hey why not, this was California after all. I heard they have a nursing home for retired actors, so why not a mental institution for crazy, old writers. "So, you only care for crazy, old writers," I said with another nervous laugh. "This place must be jammed to capacity," I said with another laugh expecting her to laugh at my joke with me, but she didn't. She just stared. Gees, stop frigging staring, I wanted to say.

"Well," finally, she said with a chuckle. "We don't refer to the writers as old and/or crazy. And if you want my advice," she said looking over her shoulder before returning her attention back to me. "I wouldn't call any of them old and crazy to their faces. It makes the old writers a bit crazy when someone does that."

"Sorry, I meant no offense."

"I'd be happy to give you a tour of the facilities," said a dignified and stocky appearing man wearing a long, white coat, sporting a full beard, and wearing glasses."

"Oh," said Flaurel turning to acknowledge the man standing behind her. "This is Dr. Chartreuse, one of our patients—"

The doctor took me by the arm and whisked me away before Flaurel could protest.

"Pardon me, Doctor Chartreuse, but did Flaurel say that you are a patient?"

"Patient? Don't be ridiculous. That's silly. Patron, she said patron, no doubt, as I am a patient patron of this facility to give it so much of my time, money, and effort. Actually, Flaurel is the one who is a patient here," he said touching my arm. "She thinks she runs the place, but I do. I allow her to play dress up in her white uniform. Truly, there's no harm in that. Besides, she's a good influence over the rest of the inmates, especially when they've been bad and it's time to spank them."

"Spank them? Okay, whatever. I see, I think. So from what Flaurel said, this place cares for emotionally disturbed senior writers?"

"Yes, that's a more delicate way of putting it," he said looking at me. "I like that," he said with a smile, "and I like you."

"Thank you, I think. So, tell me, why a mental health establishment for older writers?"

"I do it for those who have unselfishly given so much of themselves with their words and their work," he said bowing his head and putting a hand to his heart before wiping a non-existent tear from his eye. "It gratifies me that I can give something back to them, if only in the form of good mental health care," he said with a sniff before removing a crusty, old handkerchief from his back pocket and blowing hard enough to wake the dead.

"I see. It's cold in here," I said wrapping my arms around myself and shivering.

"I'll have Manual turn up the heat," he said walking to a door marked boiler room, opening it, and calling down to someone. "Manu, crank it up! Hey, Manu, turn up the heat. God, damn it! Where is that man? No one ever sees or hears from him. He disappears all the time. Manu! It's almost as if he doesn't exist. Manu!"

"Sorry, boss, I had to rewire the program, but I fixed it. You'll have plenty of heat now," replied a faint voice from below.

"I'm sorry, but you have the advantage over me," said the good doctor extending his hand.

"Oh, sorry, I'm Paul, Paul Thomas. My friends tease me by calling me PT because I'm a positive thinker."

"Positive thinker, eh," said the doctor taking my hand and shaking it. "Tell me, do you write?"

"Write? You mean stories and such?"

"Yes," he said eying me in the way that only a psychiatrist would note my every word.

"No, not really, I'm more of a reader than a writer, although I have written a few pornographic, I mean, stories of erotic literature for a site called Writerotica. Have you ever heard of it?"

"Writerotica, yes, I think I may have heard of that site," he said with a sly smile and pulling out a small pad and pen from his breast pocket and making a note and then closing it and pocketing them.

Suddenly, he reminded me of comedian David Steinberg when he played a crazy psychiatrist in a comedy skit that he did years ago. In the skit when he greeted a new patient to his office, there were three chairs in front of his desk.

"Have a seat, any seat. It doesn't matter which one."

"Ah," he'd say as soon as the person was about to sit in a selected chair. Immediately, the person jumped up from the seat and chose another chair and he'd say, "Aha!" Finally, the person picked the third chair and he'd shake his head saying, "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

"I don't know which chair you want me to take, Doctor," the person finally said in exasperation.

"Just have a seat, any seat. It doesn't matter which chair you select."

And as soon as the person relaxed enough to chose a chair, David Steinberg started his routine all over again. You had to be there. It was funny to see.

"What was that," I said pointing to his pocket.

"What was what?"

"That," I said pointing again. "You took out your pad of paper and made a note of when I said that I've written a few stories for Writerotica."

"Oh, that. That's nothing. Don't be so paranoid, Paul. For someone who thinks positively, you appear a bit tense." He put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. "Take a breath and relax. Now, stick out your tongue and say...ah."

It was then that I wondered if the good doctor was really a doctor or one of the patients here.

"I noticed there weren't many cars in the parking lot and with no homes in the immediate vicinity, it's too far for employees to walk here. I didn't see a sign for a bus stop either," I said.

"Most of the staff has left for the day. We only have a skeleton crew in the evening hours when patients are sleeping."

"Sorry, this place gives me the creeps," I said taking a breath and looking at him. "Why writers? Why do you care for only mentally disturbed writers, as opposed to mentally disturbed musicians and mentally disturbed artists?"

"Well, writers hold a special place in my heart," he said with a wry smile. "As an avid reader, I've always been a good student, so to speak, of their talent. Much like you, Paul, I'm more of a reader than I am a writer. Yet, when you think about it, as I often have, anyone who spends hours at a time, day after day, week after week, and month after month, in total solitude writing stories is a bit crazy. Don't you think? Hmm..."

When he said Hmm...like that, he leaned in and loomed over me, as if he was personally analyzing me. He made me feel uncomfortable by his stare. He made me feel defensive with his Hmm... and I felt pressured to respond to his silent inquiry.

"Yes, I imagine that would be reason for some who were of a mind to go mad. Yet, by reading their impressive works, many writers have demonstrated not only great sanity but also great insight into the human psyche."

"Really," said the doctor with a jaundiced eye. "Perhaps, you could enlighten me with a few names of the more famous."

"Certainly, Herman Melville, Edgar Allen Poe, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Raymond Chandler, Raymond Carver, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, Dorothy Parker, Anne Sexton, James Joyce, O. Henry, Sara Teasdale, Theodore Roethke, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas, Virginia Woolf, Truman Copote, and Sinclair Lewis."

"Well, I see without realizing it, you've proven my point, as every writer on your list were either an alcoholic, addicted to drugs, and/or committed suicide."

"Seriously? I mean, I knew that about Poe, Hemingway, and Copote, but I didn't know that about all the others."
"You see, Paul, if they weren't crazy before they started writing, that kind of isolation will make them nuts," he said. "Besides, just because so many writers are crazy doesn't mean that I can't take advantage of them and make money with what they write."

"What did you just say?" I looked at him in shock.

"Sorry, did I just say that out loud? Just kidding. Don't mind me. It's been a long day at the nuthouse, I mean, sanatorium. What I meant to say was that I respect their need to write by showing my compassion for them and by allowing them to continue to express their feelings in their time of emotional need."

"I don't understand."

"Another words, I encourage them to write. Writing is what they know, after all, and it's what calms them and makes them their happiest. Trust me; if they abruptly stopped writing, they'd be a lot nuttier than they are when writing their little erotically psychotic stories."

"I see. So, they write for you...as therapy?"

"Yes, of course, as therapy, you can say that. I like how you phrased that, Paul. May I use that in my brochure?" he said looking at me with that psychoanalytical kind of stare that made me ill at ease before he pulled out his notepad and pen and made another note.

"Yeah, sure, you have my permission to quote me." I mean, I didn't think that I said anything enlightening.

"Just sign here," he said pulling out a piece of paper from his side coat pocket, "and here and here...and initial there."

I thought it a bit weird that he'd have an agreement form so handily that gave my permission for him to quote me. I started reading it before signing it.

"Oh, it's just a standard permission form. There's no reason to waste your valuable time reading it."

"What's this part about me voluntarily giving you permission to keep me here after—"

"Oh, don't mind that. That's just legal mumbo jumbo that the lawyers put in there to protect me should you suddenly lose your mind," he said with a laugh.

I mean, he was a doctor, I think, I hope, and if you can't trust a doctor, then who can you trust? So, I signed it.

"There you go, Doc," I said giving him the signed document and returning the loan of his pen.

"You don't know what this place is, do you?" He looked at me and smiled. "You have no idea, do you?"

"It's a mental hospital," I said with a shrug and looking at him while waiting for him to affirm me correct. "Right?"

"Yes, in a way. More appropriately, this is the site of Writerotica." He gave me a big smile, "Welcome to the site of Writerotica."

"Writerotica? Are you serious? This is Writerotica? No way!" I took a step back and looked at the walls, ceilings, and the floors that needed a good scrubbing before receiving a new paint job. This place was falling apart.

"You seem surprised, Paul."

"I never thought the entire operation of Writerotica would be confined to a mental facility for crazy, old writers."

I never expected Writerotica to look like this. I always expected it to be in a modern building with modern offices and a large staff of young people. I had no idea. Now, that explains some things, if you know what I mean.

"Mentally taxed is a much better way to refer to our senior patients than crazy writers," he said correcting me.

"Sorry."

"Follow me. I'd like you to meet some of the gang," he said with a smile escorting me to an elevator and pushing the 4th floor button.

As soon as the doors opened it was bedlam. A giant Valentine's banner was nearly torn from the ceiling and the remnants of dozens of burst balloons were strewn everywhere. Red and white heart confetti littered the entire floor. There were people running up and down the halls yelling and screaming. Some of the patients, both women and men, were semi-naked and naked. Some were chasing one another and others were acting out, as if they were using what they were doing for inspiration to what they would write later for certain categories of Writerotica. There were people actually having consensual and non-consensual sex in the corridors. If it wasn't so exciting, it'd be shocking.

When he turned to the left, I looked to the right.

"What's down there," I said pointing to my right.

"We don't go down there unless we are wearing protective SWAT gear," he said with a cringe.

"Why? Tell me. What's down there?"

"Those are the Loving Wives writers and the Interracial Love writers. There is just no hope for those writers. They are all mad. We must even keep them apart from one another. We keep them locked in their rubber rooms, 24/7. There is no hope of sanity for any of them."

Suddenly, I heard laughing, rolling on the floor type of belly laughing, hysterical laughing. There was so much laughing that I started laughing.

"What room is that," I said pointing to a room with an elderly, naked man sitting on his bed laughing out loud.

"That's WhatSayYou. He does our comedy thread in the humor category. He doesn't write everything himself, but he collects stories and jokes from others, some of which makes it to his Funny Bone thread and others make it into his stories. He's a funny guy, so funny, too funny, that he's gone mad with laughter, which is why he's here."

"Wow, that's horrible," I said laughing. I couldn't help myself. Seeing him sitting on his bed naked laughing made me laugh.

Dr. Chartreuse walked to a secured rubber room and peered through a little window in the door.

"Shh," he whispered with a finger to his lips. "Remain calm, otherwise you'll scare her."

"Meow. Meow. Meow," said the woman behind the door loud enough for me to hear from where I was standing. Either she thought she was a cat or she really, really liked cats. "Meow. Meow. Meow."

I walked to the window and peered inside. The room was bare except for a mattress on the floor. The walls were padded and secured to the wall was a keyboard and a monitor. Mindless of my presence, an elderly woman, obviously by her long, gray hair sat naked on the padded floor typing while meowing.

"Who is that?"

"I'm surprised you don't recognize her from her avatar."

"Well, I'm only seeing the back of her."

"Meow," he said mimicking her. "Meow, meow."

"I don't know who that is," I shrugged. "I'm fairly new to the Writerotica and I'm not familiar with everyone, yet."

"She's KittyCatKitten."

"That's KittyCatKitten? No way! Are you serious? I can't believe it. She writes all those wonderful romantic stories. Everyone on the site loves her. Only, I thought she was younger. She's so old."

"She's also FelineKitten and PussyKitten."

"No way! I always thought they were three different people because they are always arguing with one another. They constantly deny that one is the other."

"Those who don't like themselves very much pretend to be someone else, Paul," he said draping a heavy arm across my shoulder. "That's why they are here, I'm afraid." He looked at me and smiled. "That's why you are here, I'm afraid," he said giving me a long look. "Think about it. Who are you really?"

"I don't know what you mean, Doctor. I'm Paul Thomas, Positive Thinker."

"Yes, of course you are. Just keep telling yourself that and even you will believe it."

Just then a statuesque naked woman walked out of one of the rubber rooms and blocked my path. She had a scowl on her face and as if she was trying to pick a fight, she purposely bumped my shoulder, as I passed by her.

"Wow," I mumbled under my breath by the site of her. She was so tall and so gorgeous. Her body was incredible and she had this beautiful, silky long, black hair.

"What did you just say? Did you just say...how?"

"I'm sorry," I said making eye contact with her. She was really quite beautiful. "Pardon me?"

"I said," she said taking another intimidating step closer. "Did you just say...how?"

"How? No, sorry, I said...wow. I meant no offense. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. It's just I was startled by your beauty and your amazing body and—"

"Watch yourself paleface," she said pointing an index finger at me.

"Who was that tall, Indian woman," I asked the doctor, once we were out of earshot.

"That's Moody."

"Oh, yeah, I recognize her now that you mention her name. She looks better in person. She looks even better than her avatar." I turned to watch her walk away. "She has an amazing ass."

We continued walking the long corridor passing by rooms that were empty with doors that were wide open. Then, when we came near the end of the hall, he pulled me away from a room with a locked door.

"What about this room? Whose room is this with all the people in it?"

"Oh, that's OshKoshB'Gosh's room. He runs the theme contests."

"Why are they all yelling?"

"They all take turns winning the contest and they are trying to decide whose turn it is to win the Valentine's contest. The winner gets to spend the night in that room," he said pointing across the hall.

"Whose room is that?

"YouBet."

"I'm sorry, but whose room is that?"

"YouBet."

"Oh, is that his name?"

"Her name. He's a she. Actually, she's lesbian. That's her there, the tall, thin voluptuous blonde with the great tits."

"Damn, why do all the good ones go to the other side?" I looked at the doctor. "I don't understand. So, why is it such a big deal for a testosterone filled man to sleep overnight in YouBet's room when she's lesbian? I don't get it."

"Because...he gets to watch her with her friends," said Dr. Chartreuse making room for YouBet and two of her strikingly beautiful girlfriends, a redhead and a brunette, to pass.

"Who is that in there," I said leaning to peek in the window. There was a man, a handsome man, a manly, muscular, macho man, sitting on his bed wearing a straightjacket. "Who is he?" He looked a bit like Brad Pitt, only much better looking. "Except for the fact that he's talking to himself, yelling actually, he looks quite normal, albeit a bit angry," I said to the doctor.

"Yes, the really crazy ones do look normal, but I assure you he's mad, raving mad. He lost his mind after writing more than 600 stories in a two year period and still losing the Writerotica's Great Divider Contest twice. Two consecutive years in a row he finished in second place. He blamed others for his loss and picked fights with everyone on the site. It's sad. For a man who is so prolific and so talented to be so afflicted with lunacy, it is a shame."

"Is that Fictionwriterbeantown?"

"The one and only, I'm afraid. We're hoping by giving him electric shock therapy to at least get him back writing again. He was our biggest earner until he just lost it. His stories earned more than 10 million hits."

Just then a loud noise, much like a farting sound, until I realized it was more like a big balloon losing its air erupted throughout the corridor. Three people, one of which was holding a pin, ran by us laughing.

"Hold up there," said Dr. Chartreuse. "You know the rules about having sharp objects. Give that to me please," he said taking the pin away from them and handing it to me.

"Fuck! Duct tape! I need some duct tape! God damn it! Does anyone have a band-aid? Tabby lost air again and I can't write without my Tabitha watching me while I talk to her. Hello? Somebody? Anyone? Help! I need a band-aid. I can't create my best selling incestuous stories without Tabitha. Every second I stand here, I'm losing sales," he said. "I'm losing sales," he said jumping up and down and yelling. "Sales! Sales! Sales! I'm losing sales!"

"Relax Tim. Calm down. Here is a band-aid for your rubber girlfriend," said Dr. Chartreuse pulling a band-aid from his breast pocket. Now, please return to your room and—"

"Who are you," asked Tim of me and staring at me before spotting the pin. "And what are you doing with that pin?"

"Hi, I'm Paul, Positive Thinker, but you can call me PT." I put the pin behind my back. "Dr. Chartreuse took it away from someone running from your room and handed it to me for safekeeping."

"You're the new writer," he said suddenly making me feel ill at ease that I was one of them, old and crazy and about to be locked up for the rest of my life while writing stories for Writerotica.

"Well, no, not really, I mean, I'm not a patient here. I mean, yeah, I guess, I am a new writer, but I've only written a few—"

"Don't be nervous. Don't you know who I am?"

"No, sorry, I just—"

"I'm Writerotica's number one writer. I'm the greatest. I'm the best. I'm the one and the only. No one receives more votes than me. No one receives more comments. No one has the highest average scores and no one receives as many sales as I do. Do you hear me? No one! No one in the history of Writerotica has earned more royalty payments than me. No one is better than me. No one! Do you hear? I am the best. I am Cory."

"Calm down, Cory," said Dr. Chartreuse. "Calm down. I don't want to have to give you another sedative."

Now, by his animated antics, I understood why this man was a permanent resident here. Dr. Chartreuse winked at me. It was then that I noticed the sign in colorful crayon over his rubber room that read, Cory's World.

"Oh, wow. You're Cory. Pleased to meet you," I said pumping his hand. "Pardon me for saying, but I thought you'd be younger. Do you mind if I asked you how old you are?"

"Eighty. I'm eighty-years-old."

"That's amazing."

"What's amazing, that I lived this long?"

"No, that you still have an appetite for writing incest."

"Incest is best. Haven't you ever had sex with your sister?"

"Eww! No! Gross."

"C'mon, tell me about it and I'll write a story about your experiences with her."

"Eww! No way! Gross!

"Surely, you must have always wanted to bang your mother."

"Eww! No! Gross."

"Do you have a daughter?"

"Eww! No! Gross."

"Have you ever fantasized over your cousin, aunt, grandmother, mother-in-law, and/or sister-in-law blowing you? Although, in-laws aren't really incest, but it is taboo." He gave me a good long look. "Surely, you can't tell me that you never wondered what your female relatives looked like naked while you were home alone in your room masturbating five times a day, every day, for most of the eighty years of your life. Sorry, did I reveal too much about my personal life?"

"I'm sorry, but the thought of having sex with my relatives just doesn't appeal to me."

The doctor took me by the arm.

"Attend to Tabby with the band-aid I gave you, Cory. I need to show Positive Thinker one more room."

The doctor led me to another room that appeared empty. It was across from Fictionwriterbeantown's room.

"Whose room is this?"

"This is your room. You'll be right across from your buddy, Fictionwriterbeantown."

"Buddy? He's not my buddy. I don't even know him. He's from Boston. I'm from New York. He likes the Red Sox and I'm a Yankees fan. Go Yankees," I said giving my best Bronx cheer. "I've never even read his stories. He's crazy and I'm normal. He's negative and I'm positive."

With a big shove, Dr. Chartreuse pushed me in the room and closed and locked the door.

"Wait! What are you doing? You can't lock me up in here. I'm not crazy. I'm not even old."

He held up the paper I signed to the glass allowing him to voluntarily admit me.

"Just as you were crazy enough to sign this paper, you are crazy enough to continue to write for Writerotica."

"But I only write good stories. Most of my stories are positive thinking stories with happy endings."

"Ah, that's the rub," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Just as you're crazy to think that this story will have a happy ending, you're crazy to think that you're a writer. Besides, for you to write this story, you're definitely crazy. Happy Valentine's Day."

"Wait! Don't go! Don't leave me here! Help! Help!"

"On a dark deserted highway...I saw a shimmering light...I had to stop for the night...this could be Heaven and this could be Hell...there were voices in the corridor, I thought I heard them say...Welcome to the Hotel to California ...such a lovely place...and still those voices are calling from far away, wake you up in the middle of the night, just to hear them say...Welcome to the site of Writerotica...Happy Valentine's Day. Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. Relax, said the night man, we are programmed to receive. You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave!"