“I don’t have any patience for normal people and their dithering, their ‘commentary’ on the most mundane things about the world. ‘Oh, I had a bacon tomato sandwich today, no lettuce, how about you?’ I don’t give a shit! Literally, I could not actually produce a single, smoking turd to give you in exchange for that trifling excuse for a conversational gambit.
Normal people disgust me with their small talk and their chattering, their chimp-like gestures, their mincing mousy steps and hesitations and awkward gesticulations in a zombie-like effort to conform and to be liked and to do their 9-to-5 so they can go home, watch two hours of telly, fuck their husbands or wives in the blandest missionary fashion ever, and snore for a few short hours to do it all over again the next day.
Fuck the normals and their fucking boring, pedestrian existences! I can’t be arsed to care.”
Carver sat back in her chair, arms crossed with fisted hands tucked into her armpits, and her chin jutted out, defiantly, at Dr. Kovacs.
Dr. Kovacs pushed her glasses up her nose by a centimeter and put her pen down her desk. “So, Carver, what you’re saying is that you desperately want to know what makes them capable of being so happy and why you’re not. Am I correct?”
Carver’s fingers uncurled and her ramrod straight back uncurled with them–she slumped down in her chair, pressed her flattened hands to her thighs, and sighed.
“Doctor, I can’t…I just can’t…I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”