This job is killing my hopes of having my own children and being a mother. I won't be able to stand them. They will be the worst; they will make me pay all the wrong things I did to my mother.

"I will castrate my son; he will always want to stay with mommy"

"What about your husband?"

"He will come home late at night"

"As if not to bother"

"He will want the television and the television's mine"

"Well, at least there is an order"

It ends as a joke. I made you laugh again and I am counting.

Someone told me my luck is in my studies, it gave me something to think about. Maybe I should study and put my possibilities to work. I have the choice of choosing. And what about stopping this procrastination?

"How many months are we talking about?"

"8"

"And then you will work and I will discharge you"

The answers are there. To be free. To start a life. All this positive thinking makes me want to do everything backwards. He told me he won't allow me to do it. Or that is what I wish he had said. I've never wanted freedom. A whole life for myself is so scary. A "hole-life". And then when I am well, I won't see you again and you will replace my forty minutes with a stranger. The female or male won't be so imaginative as I am. People always remember me and you will only have a brief memory of long dialogues. Don't be so professional; ask me to stay, to travel away with you. I've always wanted... I won't tell you.

What am I talking about?

You repeat I am so young. You question me about how long events have being so unsurprising for me.

"I know you are young" I know I am young, even if it doesn't feel like it."but how long have this feeling being present?"

"Once as a Christmas present I receive a bathing suit. I don't remember the exact moment and I don't know why I am bringing this out. But it's being a while."

"When people are too demanding and expectations are so high, things come and go and it's difficult to for fill the requirements."

Don't you feel stupid talking like that? The telephones are ringing; you are a very busy person. You disconnect them all, because of the importance of our conversation. Ha. You start playing with pieces of paper; I tell you that when I get mad I am a bitch. And knowing what could be important to say next I tell you that I want people to get angry with what I do.

"I get my kicks making people angry. I hate it when they say it's beautiful or correct and they think they can possibly understand. They should shut up and be angry"

"What is that you don't like about people liking you? What do you think people think of you?"

"I hope nothing nice!"

Nice thoughts and I feel in a compromising situation. I just want simplicity and tranquility.

"I am quiet and I have expectations as well" he says. "You can use your creativity and the lost years to make something of this, like we were talking the other day. And then you can make money of it" Yes, and everybody's happy, you fucking capitalist.

I've always wanted to marry a writer or a doctor. They are always somewhere else. Whether is in they own head or some other place, working long hours, maybe being unfaithful. Writers and doctors seem to be very confident in them. That is a great quality because here, in my head, the only one with doubts has to be me. Everybody else has to be sure, so I can ask them. And I don't care if it's a scientific respond or an invented one. I just want answers.

You give me answers. The recurrent question: "is this all there is?" and you were very clear: "birth, school, work, family, death" in other words, of course.

I give you the eighty bucks; you give me my prescription orders. It's so fucking depressive. I walk down the stairs and light a cigarette in my way out.