Until The Tears Subside

K: I'll have another draft. And while you're at it, pour me a shot of whiskey, will ya?

J: You got it.

K: The problem is, what I suffer from is excruciatingly painful. I can't even function.

J: I didn't even know you were sick.

K: Oh, yeah, you can count on that.

J: Please tell me you don't have cancer.

K: No, worse. The pain is so bad it feels like someone is peeling my skin off with a potato peeler and then pouring hydrochloric acid on the wound. Jesus.

J: Shit, man - that sounds unbearable.

K: You don't even know, man. Sometimes I stagger into the bathroom at work, stuff a paper towel into my mouth and silently scream.

J: That's not good. You gotta deal with this. Have you seen a doctor?

K: I tried, but we didn't connect.

J: What the hell does that mean? You go to a doctor, they do tests, they get results. What does connecting have to do with it?

K: You don't get it. He didn't feel me, he didn't empathize.

J: OK - this disease have a name?

K: Yeah. Low self-esteem.

J: Low self-esteem? Are you fucking kidding me? Low self-esteem? That's not a disease, it's an excuse.

K: An excuse?

J: Yeah, a fucking excuse. For you to avoid responsibility, to redirect blame. (In a high-pitched whiny voice) - "My life sucks but it's not my fault. I hate myself. I got low self-esteem." Jesus.

K: It's a disease, man. It hurts. It really hurts.

J: Drink up and get the fuck outta here. Don't come back until you grow up. Christ, what a fucking wimp.

K pays his tab and sits in his car until the tears subside. Then he drives away.