The patient approaches the doctor and sits down. The doctor does not look up. 

Good morning.

            The last time someone said that first word to me was myself and it was Not a Good Morning because it was also preceded by not and it ended with enough. After that I cried until the morning ticked away to noon and my head fell into my lap because it couldn’t hold my eyes up anymore. Tears are heavy, you know. Like elephants.

Is there something you wanted to talk about today?

            Is there a name for the space between your elbow and the top of your arm? Or your knee and the back of your leg? I’m not sure about that and about a lot of other things, like God, and I always think I should Google it or something but I never really have the time. Also; time. It always cuts short and I feel it in the heels of my feet because they’re always trying to keep up but the hands on the clock slice them instead of politely asking them to go a little faster or step aside. Clocks are bastards. Clocks are demons. I think I have a demon inside me.

People your age often tend to go through some rough patches. It helps to talk them out with a friend or a parent. 

            My demon’s name is my name too. Hey, do you know that song? 

            The patient sings off key and off rhythm. 

            John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt his name is my name too and whenever… 

            The patient hums a while; they’ve forgotten the rest of the song.

            My demon eats things. It eats my finger bones for snacks throughout the day so by the end my hands are stiff sludge and I don’t know why I haven’t cut them off yet. It likes to eat my memories, too, snapping them up like sweets they snuck up to their room, a secret stash of silver sugar only for them, and then they eat too much and spit them all back out for me to sort through the vomit. I don’t touch the vomit. It smells bad. My demon’s teeth crumble and I eat the dust. Maybe it’s my own teeth. Jacob is a stupid name for a demon. My name fits it better, except it makes my jaw ache. Maybe Jerry. Jerry with a J. I don’t want kids but if I had one I’d probably name it a name that started with J. Not John Jacob Jingleheimer, though. That’s already everyone’s name. But if I had kids they’d need a good name, one they can say without tripping over rotted letters and a diseased inheritance. Bleh. My name makes my teeth crumble.

Is there something going on at home? With your friends?

            Is there anything I can do about this ache in my shoulder? The one that comes whenever I eat potatoes for a meal other than dinner and when I take too many steps in too little time and still end up in the wrong place with the wrong eyes seeing through my head? That ache. The one that makes my body feel like a pillowcase trying to be a lampshade in a room that doesn’t have a lamp or a bed in it. I haven’t slept since I was ten years old. I have the Dora the Explorer theme song in my head. I don’t want it there. Lobotomies are illegal, right?

Do you remember the goals you wrote out? How are those coming along?

            Sometimes when I’m about to fall asleep I remember that sleep is a state of mind and I realize that we’re all useless life forms that will die and our matter will return to the earth and then I know that I don’t need to sleep now because if I sleep now that means I will spend more time dead than alive, and no one wants a party pooper. My neck hurts from lifting my head so now all I can do is sleep so that means all I’ll ever do is die. Sometimes I’m sad that I will never be the first person to discover the space between a sound and a drop of water, but then I remember that I can sleep on the floor when I didn’t put my fitted sheets on right, and the demon inside me smiles a little bit because they’re having sweet dreams. I haven’t had a dream in at least a month. Is that normal? Am I turning into my favorite breakfast foods because I am what I eat? Because if I become a donut for the rest of my life then maybe I won’t have to sleep and I will never die. I will be the immortal donut.

I’m not sure that these things you’re doing are helping you. They went against my previous recommendations.

            I’m so sick and tired of dumb people. Why are they here. If they don’t want to be here and contribute to the genuine welfare of the universe, then they’re just wasting my time, and my heels are already bleeding. I wish stupid people were ants because then I couldn’t hear them talk and they wouldn’t get in my way. My demon says that I’m a stupid person sometimes. But I don’t think that’s true because I know things. One thing I know is that if you look close enough you can see angry elephants in almost everything. They stomp up and down my legs when I’m not focusing on what I should be. Last week they left a cut on my nose and a bruise on my arm. Another thing I learned is that my demon has my name and my demon’s teeth crumble when they believe in false hopes and count on the stars of all the terrible things they’ve done and I think my demon is me and I am a demon. I am Jerry. Hi, Doctor, I’m Jerry and sometimes I forget how many times I’ve said I’m sorry.

Well, I think we’ve made some progress today, but you should come see me if you have any more problems.

            Sometimes I remember how it feels to be happy. Most times it sits in the corner of my room under some of my artwork I hung up and no longer like. A pile of demon vomit under some garish green scribbles. Art is life and life is art so maybe each cell was designed by an unhappy artist and the rest of us are just too blindly happy and inept to see it. We can’t see what we’re made of. Are we all made of art? Or are we just science and formulas, and if we are, then why do my elbows leave chalk lines on the walls and why are my eyes flooding with paint? I’m not sure if I’ll ever take a step in feet I understand. My demon doesn’t have to worry about that. They don’t have feet. And mine are rather small. I’m sad all the time. Sometimes I’m sad about my small feet.

You have a good one.

            You, too. Thanks for your time.