I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about my feelings.

I don’t want to lie on a couch, and have my words judged and my thoughts analyzed.

Sure, I have fears, phobias, depression, aggression, random thoughts, but don’t we all?

So what if I won’t stand on a balcony because I want to jump off. It doesn’t mean that I want to commit suicide.

And yes, I like to masturbate. But no, I don’t need to know why. I get it everything relates back to my childhood. My mom is the source of my problems. She never hugged me.

Gross, I just used the words masturbate and my mother in the same paragraph, but no I don’t want to sleep with her. Despite what you think, I don’t have an Oedipus complex.

But I can’t say that can I? I have to sit on the couch and listen to you enlighten me about your grand theories of my childhood.

So I stopped going to you because I didn’t want to spend three hundred dollars a week for someone to tell me about my problems. I know about my problems. They’re my problems.

Which was a shame because you were really hot. And I used to sit across from you thinking, how can I get you to sleep with me?

But that’s okay. I don’t need therapy. I’m a blogger. And yesterday was my 183^rd post, which means that I am officially halfway through the year. I’m halfway through treatment.

I see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Actually it’s a stage light.

She steps from it dressed like a naughty schoolgirl.

Her name is Sanity,

She’ s works at Girl Girls Girls on La Cienega.

It’s where I now spend your 300 dollars a week.

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