When she entered the room, she said, “What are you doing?”
“Self-treatment for my self-diagnosis,” he replied. And he kept on writing without looking up.
“For what?”
“My mental disorder.”
“What mental disorder?”
“Clinical impatience.”
“Give me that!” She grabbed the pad out of his hand.
Row after row of his squiggly script read, “I will not be impatient.”
“Why didn’t you do this on your computer?”
“The thing was taking too long to boot up.”