In which this contributor self-diagnoses and conceptualizes his psychological paradigm in effort to acclimate his new therapist, whose task may be somewhat ponderous.
Pretty basic stuff here: Mom’s a saint, Dad’s an asshole, women are bitches, and God is dead. Of course, it’s not that simple, and this is all somewhat self-diagnosed, with the help of the internet. I’m a pretty fast learner so I’ll spare you any modesty and just tell you that I probably have it 88-90% correct. I got issues people — headed by anger, abandonment, and control; thus, gonna get patricide on my Dad, take my Mom out to an expensive lunch, and find some tits not connected to a brain (respectively of course). I start seeing a therapist this Friday at 6:30 pm, every Friday for — per the referral of my “intake” psychologist — for the next 2-3 years, the projected amount of time it’ll take to shrink my head. It’s a good thing I have health insurance and a penchant for talking about myself for the full hour. To all the ladies in the house, just gimme like a couple of years to “deal,” which should be ample time to get on some meds yourself. Getting on a diet wouldn’t hurt, unless you’re anorexic. Either way, that last buffalo wing is mine. This, of course, would be our first date. Let’s get ready for some happy, srsly.