-How many butts have sat in this chair today, and how big were they? Are we all creating an everlasting, one-size-fits-all ass dent, carving the legacies of our divorces and personality disorders forever into this fake red leather?
– I wonder where I fall on the weirdness/most screwed up spectrum of this guy’s patients. Maybe I should stop talking about my general anxieties and make up something about how I can’t orgasm unless I’m in a barn wearing a Betsy Johnson dress.
-I wonder how often my therapist gets laid. He mentioned he has a son, so he has banged someone at least once. I bet he analyzes his bedmates during sex by saying things like, “you’re too fixated on having total control. This cycle of behavior needs to come to an end for your own good.”
-The sun is in my eyes. Is it in her eyes too? Jesus, are we both so subdued by midwestern niceties that neither of us will move out of the sun, for fear of breaking eye contact? This is like politeness chicken where your retinas get sunburned.
-I feel bad when I go on about my relationships, because she probably went to school hoping to turn around the lives of severely mental ill patients and write insightful psychology nonfiction, not listen to a 24-year-old girl obsess about her ex’s passive-aggressive tweets.
-I wonder if he writes himself scripts for high doses of Xanax and Librium and has decadent, underground prescription drug raves on the weekends that always have chocolate fountains. If so, how would one acquire an invite to said chill pill party?