Room 18

I'm adding this strange checklist thingie because I wouldn't be surprised that the bastards, i.e., the clinical psychologists who ruled my first thirteen years would have been doodling on such a card while they were watching my struggles. For three days a week, until May of 1972, I was in Room 18 at the Cook County Clinics, actually right next to the burn ward, which was pretty damned traumatic in itself. But on those three days I would learn to walk (when I was four), climb stairs, and did my best to use my right side. When I was older, I was put in a white room and timed while I performed dexterity experiments. Watched from behind one of those window/mirrors like you see on a cop show. They'd let the clock tick and watch me even after I cried from the pain. These memories come to mind because of a few articles I'll be writing for a book on psychology, similar to MacGill's. I'll be writing about the "Bobo doll experiment" where kids played with tinker toys as an adult hit an inflatable Bobo doll with a mallet, the same kids than being tested for aggression, and you can guess how. Then there's the "little Albert experiment," where a kid who was not yet 4 years old was kept on a table and tested for fear by such things as a white rat placed on him, then a sealskin coat draped over him, and at one point being startled by a lab assistant in a fake Santa mask with cotton balls glued to it. I might be doing an article (you kinda ask for them in order, and if no one else snags one, its yours)on Milligan. He's the bastard who had his test subjects decide how much voltage (though it was fake, and acted out by others) they would/could/did administer via the crank of a dial and a glance through a window at the fake victims. And these are examples, much like those of my early life, of why I despise clinical psychologists. I hope someone got an A+ off a paper they wrote about me...I remain, your chattel, Wayne