Edgar and The Girl

"Nigel are you awake?" whispered the psychotherapist with whom I had drunk heavily and punched holes in the walls last night. I opened my eyes a tad--the room was sewage green and brown--and I decided I hated both the physical world and this Norwegian buffoon who seemed good fun when we kicked at some woman's door. We pegged her so accurately when we called her a middle-class whore but we never thought about what we are ourselves. "Psst. Nigel. Are you awake?"

"Go to hell, Edgar," I groaned. All that study of the psyche and he can't tell I just want him to fuck off.

Last night we had a good time. Inspired by booze we conquered the city as the perfect team. But now when I looked around his office at the meat-eating plants and American Indian decor I only wanted to fight.

As I stumbled off the couch, I looked hard into his eyes and, without breaking my gaze, polished off a nearby bottle while assuming a wrestling stance. But he looked so frightened and pathetic in his soiled corduroy blazer I couldn't be bothered to pounce. I merely left without paying.

As I passed the door of the middle-class whore I felt proud, disgusted, but, most of all, hungover. I remembered her perfect hair, dress, and teeth; I remembered her calculatedly phony conversation and smile. When she rejected me, I laughed hysterically. Of course she probably didn't think it very funny when we kicked at her door, but, as I thought about it objectively, I decided, yes, it was, objectively, funny.

I spent the remainder of the day in my apartment dim-witted and watching spaghetti westerns.