If you mean his threats to evict me from this, the shoddiest and least renovated of the five, count them, five properties he owns in New York, then yeah. He made his conditions quite clear. I use, I wind up on the street. I refuse your quote-unquote help, I wind up on the street. It was my understanding that most sober companions are recovering addicts themselves, but you've never had a problem with drugs or alcohol.
About six feet. (he pulls his belt off a ladder, which has two pairs of handcuffs attached to the rungs) I actually find sex repellent. All those fluids and odd sounds. But my brain and my body require it to function at optimum levels, so I feed them as needed.
Helper monkey? You and I have what's known as companion/client confidentiality, which means you can introduce me however you'd like: friend, co-worker, relative, and I'll play along. But, to be honest, most clients just call me their companion.
Attic theory. I've always believed the human brain is like an attic: storage space, facts, but because that space is finite, it must be filled only with things one needs to be the best version of oneself. It's important, therefore, not to have useless facts: the natterings that comprised your support meeting, for example, crowding out useful ones.
This friend that you're meeting, when was the last time you slept with him? It's quite obvious it's a he and an ex-lover. You go out of your way to avoid gender and every time you talk about him you avert your gaze when say "friend." As to how I know it's not a current lover, your walk speaks volumes.
Oh, I already thought of that. (shows him a thumbtack) You even think about zoning out, this goes into the softest part of your thigh. Lots of nerve endings there.
Do you close yourself off to people and deny yourself things that might bring you pleasure not because it makes you a better investigator, but because it's some sort of penance?
For what happened in London; being addicted. I don't know. I guess it just occurred to me that it might be something someone might do and not even know it.
I started digging through one of the files I keep on open serial murders. After you'd gone to bed I lost track of time. Still losing track of it as a matter of fact. No jogging, sorry.
You mustn't be so sensitive, Watson. The service you're providing is quite valuable. For a brief stretch in London I talked only to a phrenology bust I kept in my study. I named him Angus. It wasn't the same. I realized that when it came to listeners I preferred animates to inanimate. Quite a breakthrough, really.
