that’s not what I’m talking about at all, man, you gotta see it from my perspective—it’s not a  goddamn question of what I should do, but whether I’m even fucking capable of doing it.
	I realize that, and—
	I just want some fucking advice, is all.
	I understand, and—
	So quit dodging the fucking question and give me a real, honest-to-god answer then.
	Well, Todd, it’s hard to say—I can’t like, you know, get inside your brain or anything, so I can only offer some suggestions—
	Fire away, Bucko.
	I mean, it’s your own psychology we’re talking about here, so this is all pretty much just guesswork on my part—
	Fire away, Bucko.
	Alright, well, the way I see it is you don’t really have too many choices at this point. You’re up the river without a paddle, or whatever. Take, for instance, your money problem—
	Yeah, yeah, the fucking money. Like I said, it wouldn’t even be a problem—
	I know, I know, but that ship has sailed, my friend. We’ve gotta consider your current situation and not think about that woulda-shoulda-coulda BS. So you’re flat-out broke, that’s a given, and I’ve got no money to lend, so that option’s out the window. Now, say I was to, and I know you’ll turn this down, say I was to offer you to stay in my place, with me, in the—
	You know I can’t leave, man. That’s pretty much the entire fucking meaning of my condition.
	Okay. Hmmm. Could you maybe, you know, ask your brother for some charity? Beg if you have to. I know you’re, like, estranged or whatever, but he’s supposed to be well-off financially, right?
	No can do. The man no longer acknowledges my existence. Last time we talked, over the phone, he said, and I quote, I wish you would just kill yourself already, and ended the call. That was way back maybe eight or nine months ago.
	Ouch, well, there’s always your sister then.
	Nope. Similar situation. Actually, I don’t even have her number, or, for that matter, any idea of where she even fucking lives.
	And your parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents—they’re all deceased.
	Yep.
	And you’ve sampled all the anxiety meds at your disposal?
	Naturally. None of them work.
	Huh. Any bright ideas from your end?
	Zilch.
	Alright, okay, so that leaves one option, which is probably a no-go. What it boils down to, pal, is that I have to stick my fucking neck out and move in with you. That is basically the only option on the fucking table at this juncture.
	No fucking way.
	Okay, see you on the street then. Because you’re gonna get evicted next month, I guarantee it. I’ll leave my apartment and move in. That’s the only way I can afford to support you, and I want to help. You’ve got to get it through you skull, man: you have no money left.
	There’s a fucking line I have to draw, Bucko, and this is it. I need privacy. You don’t understand—
	No, I understand perfectly well, everything is crystal fucking clear, but the fact is you won’t even have your quote-unquote safe haven in a couple weeks, not without my intervention, and then you’ll be out on the street, and you told me you’d fucking die out there, and—
	Listen. My privacy is vital. I can bear to see you every once in a while, mostly ‘cause you’re my best bud, but the vast majority of the time I’m here alone, and I need it to stay that way. Like, I require total isolation. Absolute fucking seclusion. It’s all a part of my condition, see, I am a complex organism with—
	I don’t need to hear your whole fucking complex organism spiel for the billionth time, you dense fuck. You have to wrap your fucking mind around what I’m telling you. You. Will. Be. Evicted. Capiche? No ifs, ands, or buts. No room for negotiation. Condition or no condition, you will be out on the street and beyond fucking terrified. And I shudder to think about how you’ll react under those circumstances.