"My goals? Well that's a rather personal question, don't you think? Sharing my goals. Indeed! This is an appointment to discuss the pains in my stomach and the transitory state of my existence on this planet which, alas, appears it will not be for much longer. Not a psychiatric evaluation. Share with you my goals, ha! And have you judge me with your strange notes and scribblings and whatever else you have hiding in that file of yours? I think not!"
But that was just bluster on his part. If he were honest with himself, which he tried not to be (for the emotional pangs it often brought him,) he would have to admit that he didn't have much in the way of a bucket list. Well, nothing that would require him to really do anything. And his goals? Quite meager and easily attainable if he just set his laziness aside for a few moments. But that might have been because the things he really wanted to do — the benchmarks he actually wanted to grasp — were so far out of his reach that just thinking about them caused him to drown in a deep well of melancholia that he feared he might never crawl out of.
"I'm working on them. That's all you need to know, Dr. Parsley."
Rasmus cleared his throat with a cough and twirled a small strand of his long hair around a finger.
He felt judged. And probably rightfully so.
"I'll take the Tums ... And the crackers."
Rasmus couldn't recall ever having witch crackers, but from the way she described them they sounded like something that might mellow out his nerves and put him on a smooth train to anti-anxiety land. And, although Rasmus was something of an egotistical so-and-so, he wasn't going to turn down the opportunity of a medically sanctioned high.
He frowned.
"Are you saying there's something wrong with my brain?"