“I've been compulsively wanking again. That means I'm down... really down. I walk around the apartment naked and with a hard-on that seems to constantly pull my hand towards it. Regardless of what it is I'm doing, my free hand will be stroking, pulling and jerking away. I can easily come 20 times a day! My favourite wanking spot is just behind the front door. I stand there peeping through the spy hole whilst knocking one out. Sometimes, when it's dark, I'll actually put my dick out through the letter box. With the correct wind and a finger slipped up my arse No.42 spits out into the night.” That's what I told my doctor today. I don't know why, he just seems to have these ears that pull the truth and a whole lot more from my lips.
“So the pills aren't working? They're having no effect?”
“That's right.” I lied “Who makes these things, Haribo?”
Dr. Dennis looked at me as if I was the last person on earth he should be giving stronger tranquillizers to. Then he slowly moved his mouse around, made a couple of very deliberate right clicks and printed out a prescription.
“Diazepam 5mg. One, two times per day.” he said stamping and signing the paper. “We'll start you out on a six week course and then review the situation. Ok?”
“OK.” I answered feeling like I had won some kind of a victory.
“I would also like to make you an appointment to see someone...”
“Well, no... er... I suppose...”
“No!” I said “I'm not crazy and anyway I'd never keep the appointment. I'm not going through all that again. Pulling nails out the fucking ceiling! No, it's unnecessary... really fucking unnecessary.”
On hearing those words Dr. Dennis shot up straight in his chair. It was as if they had registered some learned instinct within him, as if he knew what they meant. With a voice more human than professional, he asked: “Mr Spencer, now I want you to tell me the truth: are you suicidal?”
In a strange way that question hurt. It was like an insult. I felt the tears building under my eyes and knew I must not blink. I tried to concentrate on how many buttons held the doctor's shirt closed, but it was useless. My facial muscles relaxed, my lip trembled and I blinked open a world of sadness.
“No,” I sobbed “I probably should be, but the truth is I have a phobia about dying alone. That would just be the most terrible thing in the world.”