--No Doubt
Morpheus tells me that he is filled with self-loathing from morning until night, bearing down on him like a great weight with sharp edges and thick nails digging into the skin.
I sit in his kitchen, and explain to him that my therapist thinks that our relationship is not good for me.
"Don't talk to your therapist about me," he winces.
"I'm sorry, but that's out of your jurisdiction. You can't tell me what I can talk to my therapist about. She and others think that you're using me. Are you using me?"
He acts like I've thrown a dagger. "No!"
Earlier, while he was wandering around drunk in a town about fifteen minutes from Yuppieville, one which I use to always go to for a drink because it's quieter and more solitary than drinking downtown Yuppieville, he accuses me of talking about him on Facebook.
"I never talk about you on Facebook," I say, at least not by name. For the record, I don't even think I've made any reference to him at all on Facebook. "You're having..." I want to say paranoid delusions, but I hold my tongue. He's just drunk, I tell myself.
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