The doctor surveyed his patient on the other side of the broad mahogany table. A crisp notepad lay in front of him, spidered in a delicate scrawl. A steady tick resounded sharply against the blankness of the interior. It was shaped as a duck- a new installment- the Upper offices hadn't noticed it yet, and the doctor intended to reap all the benefits of his item of idiosyncratic indecency in the meantime. He sighed.
"Kate" he began. "I sympathise with your situation."
"Do you doctor?"
"Yes i do."
Kate chewed her lip.
The doctor had a sudden urge to reach across and grasp the hand of the unfortunate soul who sat across from him. Fate was cruel- the longer he stayed in his profession, the more he realised that. He denied himself the urge however, recalling with a wince the last time he had spontaneously expressed physical empathy. The nasty business had had him in court for weeks. The front cover of times, 2002, flashed through his mind- Alleged Homosexual Assault By Psychiatrist.
"Kate, I'm afraid you have a very serious condition. The term for it is nowadays flung about a lot, and because of that it has absorbed many different meanings." He leaned forward. "But in a psychiatrists phrase book, this condition is very severe indeed, and..." he paused, "near incurable."
Kate looked on the verge of tears.
"There are ways," he continued hurriedly, "to alleviate it however, and my dear, for your own sake, i implore you to follow them to the letter, to the letter, so you may have a chance to lead the a life without everpresent pain and hardship." Why Lord, he thought, why dost thou torment thy people? But he would have to say it. He must tell her. Just get it over with.
"The condition," he said, his heart breaking, "is called idiocy."

Damn ball with it's damn loud music making me dance in the most damnable way possible. I might as well have been on drugs. In fact, i rather wish i was, because then i'd be able to blame it on narcotics rather than my own permanently deranged self.