Okay, well, I've been worrying a lot. I wasn't supposed to talk about her. It's kind of like moonlighting. Believe me, I need the money. I couldn't tell the police anything about you even if they asked me.
All psychiatrists adhere to rules governing doctor-patient privilege.
Well, I sell a little dope. So anyway, my connection didn't come through, and I got all these fucking people calling me and asking for bud or blow, only I don't have any. I got so sick of listening to the phone ring that I pulled it out of the wall. I smashed my beeper, throwing it against the kitchen floor. It was making me crazy.