"...It just gets under my skin. I'm not cold. What's wrong with me that I need everyone to like me? I need therapy. Well, you're the only one I can talk to about it. Yes, so he was sending me these mash notes from Spain. Yes. I don't know what's going on with him, no. I don't know what he wants. Yes, so I wrote to tell him this urologist I'm seeing wants me to go away with him for the weekend. Fifty-two—he says. You know what he tells me? They're all latent. Meaning all urologists are latent homosexuals, I suppose. But what about going away with him for the weekend? No, you know what he said to me? We know where that will lead. How does he know where that will lead? No, he wouldn't just come out and say it. Nothing about our plans then. So what am I supposed to do about the weekend? Go with the urologist?"

I have to admit, I was tempted to walk over to her on the way out and say, "Forget 'em both. Spend the weekend with me," just to make it stop.