Long ago, I had a friend named Rob who was insanely obsessed with psychology. So much so that he would intentionally provoke his father to strike him in the face, and seldom let up until the blood was once again streaming from his scarred cheeks. He called it "an attempt to assess the fissure between here and manhood."
"The King weakens," he would explain, "but it would otherwise go unnoticed."
"How very Freudian," I said once.
"Freud! That bearded erotomaniac? This has nothing to do with Freud. I mean, right now you have a head of gold, and you will shed it, because you will follow. But, I will never shed mine. I would just as soon fall."
"How is that not Freudian?"
"Because I will not serve."