The Asshole App (Expanded Version) ✅ Wattys2023

𝟢3 𝖱𝖺𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽

SHE tripped. It was not his fault the Oompa-Loompa intern was crazy and a klutz.

"Sigh."

Sinclair paced his bedroom's twenty-by-ten foot custom walk-in closet like an agitated predator. He sensed a storm coming. Electricity crackled in his brain.

I need to decompress.

The luxurious dressing room had vaulted ceilings and was constructed of priceless mahogany wood, gold-veined marble, and polished glass. His wardrobe was an unvarying collection of designer jeans, dark shirts, and expensive sneakers. He halted in front of a floor-length mirror and stared at his haggard reflection as he undid his tie. Another sleepless night, and he was a wreck. He gingerly touched the bags under his eyes.

Shit. They age me ten years.

Evelyn Simmons—this was her fault. The insufferable woman had invaded his dreams like an unwelcome specter. He couldn't get her out of his mind. He visualized her soft gazelle eyes that had filled with tears and his hands clenched.

My fault. I was unnecessarily cruel. Why does my heart feel like it's being rubbed raw with coarse sandpaper? Why can't I stop thinking about sleeping with her?

Fuck.

Is this guilt?

His bullying of the pretty intern had boomeranged on him with tactical precision. Anguish ricocheted in his chest like a stinging projectile. He grimaced at the crushing pain, not to mention the unfulfilled desire that tormented his crotch.

Motherfucker this hurts. She probably hates me.

Scowling, he left his full-length vanity mirror and walked past a collection of rare, limited-edition sneakers. Fashion footwear was the one personal luxury he allowed himself to indulge in. He selected a pair of Balenciaga Adidas leather and mesh trainers, put them on and walked back to his desk. His heels bounced while he silently cursed. Unable to focus on his holographic desktop, he called his therapist, Julian Dayton.

"Raymond, it's seven am. Why are you calling? This is outside my regular office hours. I'll have to bill you for the call."

"Do whatever you have to. Isn't the reason I'm calling obvious? I'm experiencing control issues. They're affecting my work and I can't afford to be distracted."

"We discussed your lack of impulse control a mere twenty-four hours ago." Sinclair heard plates moving in the background as his therapist made breakfast. He imagined the money-grubbing, five hundred dollar-an-hour shrink dressed in blue silk pajamas and stifling a yawn as he poured himself a cup of aromatic black coffee.

The bastard thrives on pain like a starving spider with a trussed up juicy fly. He should be happy to hear from me.

Dayton had diagnosed him with BPD, a borderline personality disorder with the tendency to split from his emotions. He admitted he had the tendency to simultaneously love and hate, but he suspected the therapist knew that the diagnosis would freak him out and make him need more therapy.

"Are you doing the self-soothing exercises I gave you?" In the background, he heard what he imagined was farm-fresh butter sizzling in a frying pan.

"What exercises?" He rubbed his temple. "Listen, Julian, this split emotion disorder you diagnosed me with... I've been thinking... maybe it's a psychological asset. Wasn't that Batman's superpower? Kickass CEO by day, high-tech vigilante by night?" He wasn't running around in a rubber cape and mask, grappling anyone with a Batarang. He frowned. Did his DC Caped Crusader high-top Converse count in that respect. Probably.