“So, what are you doing?”
“Pandering my life away, why?”
“Just wondering, want to pander some life in my direction?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You broke my heart and I want nothing to do with you.”
“Then why didn’t you block my call?”
“I’m a masochist.”
“So why not let me come over?”
“Because I’m a self-respecting masochist.”
“That’s an oxymoron.”
“I’m that too.”
“No, that can’t be a ‘you,’ that’s an event, a lapse in logic.”
“I’m that too–lapsing in logic.”
“No. Listen, everything on the planet does not define you. These are happenings, not diagnosis or self-defining personality traits.”
“That’s not what my shrink says.”
“Who the hell is he, some mountain top Guru?”
“No, he’s my brother-in-law, he practices down on the South Side.”
“People pay him to make them psychological hypochondriacs?”
“No, he does it for free. He makes his living baking cakes, but you know how dangerous that can be.”
“Sure, so for free he makes you feel like shit.”
“Yup, sorta what you did for a year – all free to me.”
“You know, perhaps you are just a lying masochistic looney.”
“Which makes you a truth-until-it- hurts sadist.”
“How can truth make me a sadist?”
“Truth alone isn’t sadistic but mix it with a person who is calling a psychological-wreck-of-a-human-being-because-you-broke-up with-her just so you can have a one-night stand is sadistic. Tell you what, why don’t you hang-up on me, and hook-up with some visually turned on female at a bar so I can go on eating my cake.”
“You’re sick.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”