"There are some times I've just, like, forgotten" he began warily. "Yeah, I think."
The psychiatrist's office was quaint enough, kind of this minimalist vibe going on. Courbosier chair in the corner, a potted plant in the window bay, sparsely decorated bookshelf with DSM-IV related material behind the
"Do you know what precedes these events, a catalyst?" the doctor mused, interrupting my thought process.
"Fuck, man. It's just, times." the young man proffered.
Somehow I feel more comfortable in this room than in my place. The light is soft
"Could you elaborate?"
"No! Shut up"
So, anyway, this guys office is quaint. I like being here more than in my
"How can I help you if you-"
"Own apartment, fuck man! Stop that."
The young man simply hated to be disturbed. This was a matter of fact the doctor should have recognized instantly, he believed. If there was one true thing, it was that this man felt the world owed him something. And no degreed-up gaywad could convince him otherwise.
"I think I see where you're coming from."
The doctor paused, looking-up from his biscuit-colored personalized stationary. He began caressing his stainless steel classic Cross mechanical pencil, "that is fair, but we're trying to find out where you're coming from."
"This is going nowhere!" they both sang, rather joyfully, as the doctor doused himself and his patient in Kingsford brand lighter fluid.
The men held each others hands tightly, and the young man with wide eyes glimmering gleaming beams of hope rejoiced, "we're gonna fly, now."
"Holy shit!" the doctor squealed, giddy with anticipation.
"I think I love you" the board certified physician and addiction specialist shouted with childlike abandon. And before the young man could reciprocate the sentiment, the doctor unsheathed a concealed .9 mm handgun and fired a shot at the Tensor lamp on his desk. "You don't even have to say it man, because I know! I already know." Tears began to swell in both of their eyes.
For it was.