me vs. therapy

‘no, i won’t be writing you a script for narcotics.’

‘what if i promise to nominate you for cnn heroes?’

‘for dispensing drugs to someone who doesn’t need them?’

‘but I do need them!’

‘for what?’

‘my office christmas….er, i mean, holiday party. it’s tomorrow.’

‘in long island?’

‘yep.’

‘where your angry, non cooperative, fun-sponge of a boss’s lair is?’

‘yep.’

‘ah. now i understand. you’re right, you do need them.’

‘great!’

‘but i’m not giving them to you.’

‘c’mon. do you have any idea how much anxiety i have over this shit trip?’

‘yes, i do.’

‘so?’

Therapist smiles, says; ‘so, you’re an adult. deal with it.’

‘that’s nice. thanks for nothing.’

‘you’re welcome. really, angela…it’s not that bad.’

‘i’m on my period, i’ll have to be social and i just started my no-eating policy.’

‘well, i’d gasp if i thought those were debilitating. but (sadly for you)…they aren’t.’

‘i have to take out my lip ring! my hole will close and i’ll never get it back in.’

‘if i were less of a therapist i’d venture a stab at a that’s-what-she-said.’

Scowl.

Therapist smiles. Says; ‘just drink before you get there. that’s what i do before work.’

‘really?’

Therapist continues smiling.

Say: ‘i just hate sitting there. they put me in the vacant desk, the one right in the middle of the room. i have to touch a mouse that everyone and their brother has smeared their germs all over. and since i’m rarely there all the guys just stare at me because i'm a new set of boobs and no one talks to me except the boss and she doesn’t really talk she just kinda barks orders that i don’t even understand because they’re in that ridiculous long island accent. so i end up saying ‘yes’ when she’s done talking, then i screw up what i was supposed to do….’

‘since you have no idea what you were supposed to do…’

‘correct. then i say ‘sorry’, skulk to the bathroom and pretend i have some exotic form of the stomach flu.'

‘yes, but on the bright side there will be an hour-long lunch, that will eat up time for you.’

‘then i'll have to socialize.'

'you like talking and hob-knobbing.'

'not with them. the women look at me like i'm from outer fucking space. if i get up to grab a printout they look out of the corner of their eyes at me like they're going to shank me as soon as i'm distracted. the guys ask me things like how's the weather in connecticut, which is like...10 miles away. but most of all, i promised satan i wouldn't eat anymore since i'm now a fat cow.'

‘you mean, santa?’

Look over at Satan, Satan shrugs, looks quizzical.

Look back at therapist, say; ‘no, satan…my imaginary devil.’

‘right. angela, no matter what you say, you’re not getting drugs from me.'

‘fine. see if i tell you anything important anymore.’

‘suit yourself, i get paid either way.’

‘i quit you.’

‘no you don’t.’

‘yes, i do and you can’t make me not!’

‘our time is up. See you next week.’

‘ok.’