IC: That Poor Bastard, Carl

Wednesday, March 29
I got there a bit early, I sat read my "SkateBoarder" magazine. Now there's a generation of slackers that I don't understand: Trust fund guys in the late 20s that aspire to "F--- the man". This is for a project pitch on Generation T.

Mr. L----- walked in removing his jacket. "Carl, what's up, let me settle in first". My mission thats morning was clear that morning. I wanted to get free therapy, not Hep-C and HIV drugs, or condoms, or MetroCards or a free pen. So we discussed. Since I've returned I no longer have highs and lows in emotion. I explained it this way "I'm behind on taxes, rent and bills. Normally that should scare me, but I don't feel it."

I explained to him a conversation that I had with Oola, that I wasn't trying to be one of those distant guys. I just don't seem to feel exceptionally happy or sad about anything. Or for that matter, angry. It's like being on methadone, from what I hear. No real peeks. Just all low moderate waves. My default personality is more like a helpful airline steward. But my fear is that the plane may be crashing and I'm still handing out wet naps and pretzels and talking about the inflight movie.

Mr. L---- got on the phone and called around until he found an open appointment. He said he was worried about me all this time. I was very flattered. I said I was worried about me too. The only way I can really feel for myself is if I say "that poor bastard, Karl". "Well that's not good for you, Karl." He made an appointment for me for next Tuesday, April 4 with a Dr. K----.

Oh, that poor bastard, Carl. The two agreed on an appointment for assessment next week Tesuday at the BATF office on Bergen Street. And what will become of poor Carl? Tune in.