This Writer Is Beyond All Psychiatric Help.
It was 2:47 AM on a Tuesday.
Doctor Caroline was screaming in the bathroom.
Screaming.
Like some demented accident victim.
She was standing on the floor, bleeding.
In the darkness, she'd stepped on a piece of glass from a broken picture frame.
The same picture frame she had thrown at me a few hours earlier.
She was just standing there, watching her own blood pool beneath her feet.
“Anthony, l didn't feel it," she said, her whole body shaking”.
“I stepped right on it and I didn't feel a thing."
“Well, Doctor Caroline”.
“Now that you've become one of the richest women in the world”.
“It’s time to help yourself!”
“Because you are our only hope”.
“Anthony, l already told Abbas Araghchi; "I'm the boss now!”
“This fucking Strait of Hormuz, has always been a problem…tell the Iranian National Guard Corps I’m personally upset!”
(Was there any possible limit to Doctor Caroline’s humility?)
Doctor Caroline was screaming in the bathroom.
Screaming.
Like some demented accident victim.
She was standing on the floor, bleeding.
In the darkness, she'd stepped on a piece of glass from a broken picture frame.
The same picture frame she had thrown at me a few hours earlier.
She was just standing there, watching her own blood pool beneath her feet.
“Anthony, l didn't feel it," she said, her whole body shaking”.
“I stepped right on it and I didn't feel a thing."
“Well, Doctor Caroline”.
“Now that you've become one of the richest women in the world”.
“It’s time to help yourself!”
“Because you are our only hope”.
“Anthony, l already told Abbas Araghchi; "I'm the boss now!”
“This fucking Strait of Hormuz, has always been a problem…tell the Iranian National Guard Corps I’m personally upset!”
(Was there any possible limit to Doctor Caroline’s humility?)
