So tell me more about this nickname,” says Cynthia in her office.
“What’s there to tell?” I say. “They called me Mad Dog. Mad Dog Maddie.”
“And why did they call you that?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because you were aggressive and hostile toward other people?” she asks.
“That would be why. Yes.”
“Why were you like that?”
“Did you ever go to high school?”
“Yes.”
“And did you notice most of the people are assholes?”
“I thought most of the people were just people.”
“Well, at my high school, they’re mostly assholes.”
Cynthia nods. “What about the girls? Did you have any female friends?”
“Did you not hear what I just said? The people there were assholes.”
She writes something in her notebook. I hate it when she does that.
“Did you ever fight with boys?” she asks.
“Sometimes.”
“What did it feel like, hitting people, trying to hurt them?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“It was fun,” I say.
“Why was it fun?”
“It just was. It was exciting. It was a rush.”
“So it was almost like another drug, added to the ones you were already on?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“So you weren’t actually angry at these people?”
“Of course I was angry at them.”
“But it wasn’t really anything they did. It was more because you needed that adrenaline rush.”
“Trust me. They usually did something.”
She tosses her notebook on her desk. “You know there’s a saying: ‘If you meet three assholes in a day, you’re the asshole.’ Do you think that could be true?”
“That I’m the asshole? No! Are you kidding me?”
She stares at me.
“No way,” I say. “I am never the asshole.”