This is the part when I'm supposed to say something profound. Perhaps make your brain pass some sort of neurotransmitter. It wouldn't be seratonin. Probably dopamine. To make you at least move away from the subject. To close your eyes, and whisk you away from all your troubles.
You think that this is the part to be skeptical. Your criticism has criticized you in all ways possible. You are a burnt piece of toast with rounded corners. There is no chance for you to come back to the former life. You live in a dream filled with doctors about to suck your life away with a needle.
This is the part when I'm supposed to save your life. To give you advise on how to cure your thoughts. Give you different ways to kill the bird. These new lists of trivial things may not work, but you will try them because you are desperate.
You think this is the part to be weak. To throw yourself and your life onto me. You give your withdrawn blood to me, the doctor. So that I may spin it in a lab, and determine that you have a decrepit amount of red blood cells left. All these cells have been absorbed in your misery.
This is the part when I tell you the diagnosis. The mine field you are about to be trapped in. I give you a suggestion for a transfusion. Perhaps, a thought transfusion as well. This gives you hope and false faith.
Now for the good part. You are to run out screaming like you won the lottery. You feel clairity. The only thing that keeps you from going on, and destroying your life more is the bus turning onto 5th street. Sadly, you are crossing 5th street at the same time. There is no room for cynics any longer. I don't have to search for new blood.
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