I grabbed his pen and threw it out the window behind him, squaring my shoulders and cocking my head.
The doctor however remained unflinchable – he stared a while, until (my poise of self-assurance rapidly disintegrating) he reached into his pocket, and withdrew another pen.
Tap, tap, tap.
I raised my hands in surrender.
“Doctor,” I pleaded, “what is the news, is it good or bad?”
“Bad news, you owe me a new pen,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll get you a new pen, but do you know what I’ve got?”
“Take a seat.”
“I’m already sitting.”
“Ah, so you are. Good. I am afraid you have ‘scribin forcashus’.”
“Scribin’ for whatsuss?”
“-forcashus,” he said, scratching his nose.
“You procrastinate like there’s tomorrow, have an enlarged ego (the biggest I’ve seen I might add), have constipated idea glands, and you spend more time ‘researching’ than flexing your creative muscles and writing. It’s a common, but much undiagnosed illness of the brain.”
“Is it terminal?”