When I Was A Museum Guard I Went Temporarily Insane

I can’t remember why I thought becoming a museum guard was a good idea.

I think I was desperate for a job. In the beginning, it was lovely because I didn’t really have to do anything except watch the guests and tell people they couldn’t have backpacks in the galleries. I was free to daydream and fantasize all day. Daydreaming is still my favorite activity.

Soon, however, the isolating aspect of this job began taking its toll on my mental health. But, I met a really good friend while I worked there, and you might be familiar with her toothpick sculptures (just kidding). She and I became best friends. She was odd and funny. She had dyslexia and was an amazing artist. We soon began taking notes on our mental activities and comparing these written documents on breaks. We even devised an entirely new alphabet and wrote notes to each other in this alien script. We wrote so much in that script every day that it became more familiar to us than the English alphabet.

I slowly began to lose grip with reality and I remember the feeling of wanting to categorize my entire world. I started color-coding my lunches depending on what day it was. On Monday, I would only allow myself to eat white-colored food, Tuesday was yellow, Wednesday was red, Thursday was brown and Friday I allowed myself to mix and match different-colored foods. I also spent huge chunks of time visualizing the entire museum as a giant edible castle. The marble columns became marbled chocolate, the floor was pudding, and the black door handles became licorice. The only person I could discuss such thoughts with was my friend, Franceska, the toothpick sculptor.

But the real insanity started when I became obsessed with one of the other guards named Boris. He had jet black hair, blue eyes and an odd Russian accent. His skin was pale and he seemed really nervous all the time when he talked to me. Other guards thought he might be gay, but his nerves said otherwise. He was overly shy and always seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

The word, furtive, always floated above his head.

My fantasies about him grew daily like giant insane sunflowers on acid until I couldn’t stand it anymore. My mind was fixated, totally fixated on this man. The rooms and all the artwork in the museum began to resemble one giant, quivering mass of desire. Part of me knew pursuing him might be a bad idea because my fantasy of him wasn’t based on anything tangible. It was only based on my imagination and tons of idle time, strolling in empty rooms and corridors. My mind was desperate to make some meaningful story out of all the nothingness I was experiencing.

I remember catching glimpses of him as he paced back and forth in the Impressionists room. I made a point of staring at him until he realized I was doing this. I could tell I made him nervous. For some reason I enjoyed making him feel uncomfortable.

It got to the point where I would frequently inject the two of us into the paintings, using my imagination alone. I would stare at the artwork until I “saw” him appear in some scene. I felt aroused all the time when I did this. And I did it every day. Every object became infused with some story I’d made up about him and me.

One day an exhibit arrived that had to be experienced in total darkness. It was some kind of light display. I remember how excited I became when I discovered I could go into that dark exhibit and perhaps be in there at the same time as Boris. One time when we were in there together, he accidentally touched my shoulder and I almost passed out.

There comes a point in everyone’s life when you realize you’re going to either go mad or step out of your comfort zone. I reached that point after several months of agonizing fantasies. I basically took matters into my own hands and asked Boris on a date.

Our dates were very special as I learned that he was around 30 but had never slept with a woman before. He was incredibly naive and delicate inside. When we kissed, I always tried to take it further, and he didn’t want to. He was really scared about his body becoming out of control.

I learned he had a Russian accent because he lived with his parents who were from Russia. He didn’t go out much or have many friends. I started to sense that something had gone awry in his life. His isolating life was a little spooky to me. I also began to notice his compulsions and obsessions were firmly rooted in his mind. He double, triple, quadruple then octuple-checked to make sure his car was in the park position. He also couldn’t stand to see lint on my shirt and would pick it off whenever his eyes discovered a tiny speck. He had a very severe case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

During one of our last dates, while we were kissing, he got so excited, he came in his pants. He was so embarrassed about it. I tried to ease his nerves, but I’m not sure I had any effect on them. That’s the last thing I remember.

I broke up with him to save my own sanity because his OCD was really beginning to make things miserable. I was perfectly fine with his lack of sexual experience. Actually, I was overjoyed about that since I’m a hyper-sensitive ultra germaphobe. But his obsessive mind was really hard to deal with. He scared me a little.

Afterwards, I felt bad about the whole thing and whenever I go to the museum, even to this day, I’m afraid I’ll see him. You see, I never stay friends with anyone I date. I feel a terrible pang in my heart and the feelings are ones that I’d prefer to avoid. Avoidance is my way of dealing with stuff.

Today my favorite writer is ☀️Rama☀️. I think he’s hysterical.

Thank you for your attention in this matter.

Your Partner In Mad (and sad) Ideas,
Stellabelle