Just Another Day at the Office

I have been having the best time ever with Crazy Baby-killing Lady. First, I find her on her porch talking as if she's been huffing helium and giggling constantly. I know she can find meth when she wants it, but helium? That's just weird. I take F-bomb to see her the next day so I can utilize his mad crazy-people assessment skills. We figure somethings wrong, but we can't figure out what it is. The following week, I can't find her. Anywhere. She won't answer her door, I can't hear her singing, and there are children's toys, juice, and about 5,000 flies covering her porch. Time to bring F-bomb back. The neighbors come over to talk to us while we're knocking on her door and they report she hasn't been seen in almost a week. That fact coupled with the Amityville Horror feel to the apartment makes us both think she's dead. The neighbors don't stop there, they describe how she's been digging through trash, peeing on the sidewalk, and dancing outside in her underwear. She also left a thank you note attached to a cheetos bag for the next door neighbor. It would have been a sweet gesture had the bag not been filled with shit. The neighbor thinks it's from a dog, F-bomb and I think it's more personal than that. We find the property manager who agrees to search the apartment; luckily and surprisingly, there isn't a corpse. Yet another neighbor wanders over to let us know that she had been calling the cops on CBKL, but the cops said they had to catch her in the act to arrest her because just being crazy isn't against the law. F-bomb makes some calls and finds out she is indeed in jail for disorderly conduct and battery and I am to attend her hearing in the morning. The next day I wait for two hours for her lawyer to present her case, only to discover she has been released. I call the psych ward and she isn't there, I call the court and they won't tell me what has happened with her, or if she has to attend a later hearing. I find her at home, now surrounded by pieces of Hostess Cupcakes. I can't understand half of what she is saying, but she reiterates she is telling the truth. I manage to make out that some witches live down the street and Satan has been riding his Harley (what else would the Prince of Darkness have?) through the neighborhood. Then a man passes on his bicycle and she yells "Keep the Blues alive!" at him, with an enthusiastic wave. Also, they didn't give her any of her antipsychotic meds in jail. But why bother, since being crazy isn't against the law? Later, when I was off for a week with my mom, she gets sent to the psych ward, goes before a judge, pisses him off, and gets a one-way ticket to a mental institution. I helped her every way she would let me and it wasn't enough. It wasn't my fault she ended up this way, but I still have a vague sense of failure about it.

Sometimes I wish I was an accountant.