the doctors assured me that with time I would be healed. According to them, my symptoms - morning sickness, panic attacks, depression alternate (very rarely) to euphoria, violent impulses toward men dressed in black, and so on. - Were to be considered completely normal, a seventeen year old Everton fan.
"You'll see," said the psychiatrist had brought me from my grandmother (my grandmother is a fan of Liverpool and was concerned not so much of my discomfort as the figure that he would do if her friends at Club Shit Red had come to knowing that her niece preferred the Blues), "now you go to enroll at university, everything will change. Beer, drugs and women will not have more time to worry about football disasters combined for eleven men who do not know either. "
My grandmother blissful smiles. "It 's what I always say, Doctor, but I do not want to listen."
He turns to me. "Come! Before reaching the grandfather to the pub we go to buy a hookah and a maxicartone of condoms. "
university, despite the hookah has been arrested by the vice-chancellor during a raid by night, I have wonderful memories, and also in years I have always tried to follow the sage advice implicit in the words of the psychiatrist. The symptoms, however, remain, and at four o'clock last night I woke up in a cold sweat after a nightmare in which Everton could not get past the draw with Hull City. Should I start to worry?
