The truth is a vast thing. I see that now, just how much truth there is. Where would we even begin? The truth is you are not very smart. In fact, you’re only the 43rd smartest person in this building. [That’s based on what?] Every standardized test you ever took averaged together, not including your medical boards, which you cheated on. The truth is you smoke an average of nine cigarettes a week in the parking lot when you think no one’s looking. The truth is that you visit a massage parlor once or twice a month, that you pay for it with crisp $100 bills that you get out of the cash machine at the 7-Eleven across the street. The truth is that you fantasize on online forums about having sex with some of your patients, though not me… yet. I guess I’m not your type. The truth is, God is 11 years old, that she was born on New Year’s day, 2002, in Manhattan. The truth is that she’s chosen me, and I don’t know why yet, that for the first time in my life… I’m a little scared about what’s gonna happen. The truth is, I’m stuck here for now, and the only dialogue you need to be worried about is between me and her, which is why you might want to give me my phone back. Because I’m having an argument. Would you like to know the truth, doctor? About what we’re arguing over? Whether or not I’m gonna kill you.