How should we do this, Doc?
Should I just list them off?
That would be fine.
You know how every person has at least one outfit that repels other humans? Right? I wear that every day. When I go places that are obviously fun I have to say stuff like, This is a really fun place. I cry into my foods. Chris Hansen is the #1 television journalist I would cripple if it were guaranteed no one would find out. My asking price in the event a millionaire business traveler propositions me sexually is $2,000 or a pair of military-grade night vision goggles. For years I thought I’d meet my soulmate in an erotic bookshop. In Prague. Now I just kind of linger in Kinkos, near the fax machines, waiting for someone to need help. The fact that I don’t have cancer is appalling to science, although some of my hairs have lost their pigmentation. They’ve become albinos. Albini, if you will. I’m 98% positive orgasmic synchronization is a farce invented by Hollywood cinematographers. I wrote my phone number in the bathrooms at Fuddruckers and never got a single fucking phone—
I think that’s enough, Frank.
What do you think, Doc?
Can we beat this thing?
How about relaxation therapy, Frank? Have you tried relaxation therapy?
I live next to a park where you buy donuts and horse tranquilizers from the same person.
I know how to relax.
Chromology? My daughter sees a chromologist. Lovely woman, really.
Get your head out of your ass.
Oh God, I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I would have liked this appointment to take place in a sweet old farmhouse, and for you to be Kathy Bates. I wish I could call you Kit-Kat and put my feet on your coffee table and tell you about my black wrists. I wish we had a zany relationship, and in the end you help me and maybe I even help you. But those are wishes. My heart was born broken. Let me ask you this: Is it true there’s an extremely high rate of alcoholism and suicide among those in the profession of helping people self-help?
I want you to get off me, Frank.
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