D: My laptop died on me. Caught its death somewhere. And I'm protected. Was. Really, truly...fortified. I don't believe this.
Doc: I'm not that kind of doctor. I said I'm not that kind of doctor.
D: Do you moisturize? Your hands don't look a day over fifty.
Doc: I'm forty-five.
D: That's what I'm saying. Everything was running smoothly during the day. I go back in the evening and everything's...kaput. It started berserking and it hasn't stopped berserking since. It's laughing at me. Well, not as in a skull flashes and laughs but you know...I think it knows I've had a shitty week and...it's trying to make it worse.
Doc: Speak up, dear.
D: It's adding insult to injury, is what it's doing.
Doc: How long have you believed inanimate objects are out to get you?
D: Could inanimate objects do such things? That's what I'm saying.
Doc: These things happen.
D: Do they have to happen all at once?
Doc: They don't know they're all happening at once.
D: I don't understand what you're saying. What kind of a doctor are you?
Doc: It's a coincidence. They're not out to get you. It's all in your head.
D: Fine. I still feel violated. Like after a robbery. Unsafe.
Doc: Of course you do.
D: I sit at another desk on another computer and it doesn't feel right.
Doc: Of course it doesn't. Maybe you need to step away for a while. What would you do if you had no desk, or a computer?
D: I'd use pen and paper.
Doc: Let's pretend you couldn't. Let's pretend they were out to get you, to make sure you never wrote another word. Took away all your tools, messed up, no, wiped out everything.
D: I'd find a way to write.
Doc: But if you had nothing to write on? If you were told you couldn't?
D: That I was prohibited to write? Is that what you're saying?
Doc: That is what I'm saying. That you could never write again. Ever.
D: I'd write in my head.
Doc: So what you're saying is all you need is in your head.
D: It's all in my head.
Doc: And can they get to your head?
D: Keep it down, will you.
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