me vs. therapy

'where have you been angela?'

'i was traveling the world selling drugs and pulling in g's.'

'is that right.'

'no. i'm lying. i was tired of analyzing everything, so i stopped coming to therapy. i've actually been eating a lot and watching netflix religiously.'

'maybe you could have told me that was your plan.'

'you would have talked me out of it.'

'perhaps. so we need to do some catch up. have you had any big changes in your life recently?'

'i'm pregnant!'

'i didn't foget that you're a horrible liar so let's move on to real, concrete changes.'

'uh, well the thing is...i don't really have anything new to report.'

'how is your dating life?'

'let's catch up on that later.'

'ok, how is work?'

'i hate work.'

'so the same.'

'yeah, you know what?'

'you'll tell me...'

'you know how i've always struggled with how to explain my job to people? when i say i draw helicopters i imagine most people think i sit at a desk and use a pencil to draw artistic helicopters flying through sunny skies with birds and rainbows and shit. so i finish lamely with a 'on a computer'. but as i sit at work and reflect on all the stupid fucking questions i field on a daily basis and all the markups resembling a third graders art assignment i realize that i'm a translator. i translate what trained adult technical writers are trying to communicate because they don't know how to communicate effectively, so i go ahead and do it for them THEN i draw it'

'it sounds like you are resentful.'

'well yeah, now that you say that i guess i am. i mean a while back, i got a cocktail napkin with some circles and a fucking rectangular box scribbled on it. you know what that means?'

'uh, no i'm drawing a blank.'

'yeah, because you don't read fucking minds. turns out he wanted some nuts, washers and a bolt exploded out of a fairing.'

'sounds frustrating.'

'it IS therapist. how hard is it to communicate nuts, washers and bolts in a way another adult can understand? i can't imagine how some of the ding-a-lings ask their wives to pass the butter at the dinner table, they can't even communicate when they want me to draw a bolt.'

'i'm sorry that your job is so frustrating. have you thought of getting a new one?'

'no.'

'ok, well that's hard to work with.'

'let's move on to i finally went to the gynocologist.'

'oh that's nice. everything go alright?'

'my parts are ship shape and barnacle free.'

'well that's good to hear. anything else?'

'i went on a three dates with perfect polly.'

'excuse me?'

'perfect polly. she's that girl that is hands down perfect for me. it would have only been two dates, but my mom convinced me that i needed to go on one more date just to make sure.'

'to make sure of what?'

'that even though she's perfect i can't like her.'

'why can't you like her?'

'dunno. when i think of kissing her, i wrinkle my nose. when i think of candles and dinner and violin music i frown.'

'so you're not attracted to perfect polly?'

'no.'

'what a surprise.'

'what's that supposed to mean?'

'we'll work on that latter. time is up. good luck with those nuts. and don't even that's-what-she-said me because i'm so over it.'

'but it's my thing. it makes me feel witty.'

'you're witty in other ways. cultivate them. and set up a new appointment with my assistant before you leave so you don't accidentally foget to show up next time you're running drugs from columbia.'

'i don't do south america. it's too moist.'

'you know that i hate that word.'

'moist?'

'angela.'

'do you have a towelette for my hands before i leave, they're quiet dirty. something moist would be best.'

'goodbye angela.'

'can i borrow an office umbrella to make it to my car, the rain will get my hair moist.'

'i've stopped listening.'