The Wachsmuth Syndrome

The Wachsmuth SyndromeI knew there was something funny when I woke up. Something unaccustomed.The typewriter stood on my desk exactly as I had left it; my pipes were lined up in their rack; my trousers lay over the chair where I had thrown them before going to bed. It couldn't be the cognac. I drink a glass of cognac every night, for my circulation. Nor do I smoke pot, take hash or go on LSD trips. Susan was here, let's see, on Monday; I keep to the golden rule. I haven't masturbated since I tur...