"Morning missus," I govereeted back to her in my gentleman's goloss. Well, I tried to do that, brothers, but the inside of my rot was all dry and cally with this horrible sour taste and my glazzies were stinging a bit.
"I'm Dr. Taylor, your psychiatrist," she said.
I cheered up somewhat, brothers, over the next 30 minutes as she showed me all like these slides with pictures of lewdies creeching because they were being tolchoked, all red red krovvy everywhere, and she asked me what I thought about them, and I said that I would like to be in on that. Those violent slides reminded me of the old happy days when I was a free young malchick and my droogs weren't traitors. It made me a malenky bit sad that those days were all like in the past and over.
"That's enough," she said eventually. "I have my results. You seem to be cured."
"Cured?" I asked her. "All broken up like this and you say cured? Kiss my sharries is what I say."
"No no no," she replied, smiling. "Did you feel sick when I showed you those slides?"
I frowned at her, shaking my gulliver.
"Then you're cured."
I liked that messel very much at first, but then I remembered what my pee and em had told me earlier, about me not being able to walk. "But," I govereeted, "I won't be able to do any of that, will I? I won't be able to go crasting and drasting and tolchoking and spatting and all that stuff. I can't ever live my jeenzy how I want to! Because I can't bloody wal- OW!" I was getting razdrez and I had slammed my broken rooker on the bed.
"Oh Alex," she said in her sweet goloss, patting me on the pletcho. "Don't think like that. Lots of people who can't walk can still live happily!"
I seriously doubted this, brothers. Living without nogas seemed bezoomny at best, oozhassny at worst. When she went away, I started thinking, letting my rassoodock wander. I started remembering that winter nochy two years ago, one of the worst nochys of my jeenzy. Me tolcocking that old soomka with the fake zubrick, avoiding all the kots and bowls of moloko around the domy, the sight of my three droogs waiting for me outside. But most of all, I remembered Dim. I remember him smashing the bottle of moloko over my litso, the glass shiving into me, the cold moloko running down my shirt. I remembered the millicents and their like sirens and golosses as they looked down upon a wounded and creeching young veck. That memory replayed over and over again, like a broken record in my gulliver. But then there came a time when my droogs ran away and left me to get loveted - and no-one came. I couldn't even slooshy the sounds of the rozzes' autos. There was just me, all on my oddy knocky. Just me and my krovvy and my pain. Eventually I couldn't like hold it in any longer. I felt my cut and krovvy litso crumple and I started platching. I was platching so hard that my whole plott was shaking.
"Alex, Alex! Wake up!"
My wet glazzies snapped open and I saw the Minister of the Interior or Inferior standing in front of me and I realized I must have fallen asleep again and that it was his rooker shaking me.
I'm writing this at quarter to midnight, which is why it feels a little lazy at the beginning. I skimmed over that part because I wanted to get to writing the good stuff. Sorry this chapter is so short, it's just that I have exams from May 14th-May 20th, so I'm gonne be dedicating more time to revision. I have a rough outline in my head though, which should help motivate me a bit more.
Also, if your 5th favourite movie is The Lego Movie, you like FNAF and you have an OC named Emilee, thanks a bunch, although you are the reason I'm still writing this at ten to midnight. LOL jk, I love you man.