"How does that make you feel?"
Well, how the fuck is it supposed to make me feel, doc. I come to you for answers, not to question my motives. Psychologists are such bullshit. Give me the hard sciences, not someone to talk to me until I feel like crying enough to flood the Earth in some biblical, forty-days and forty-nights nonsensical way.
Fuck you, doc. The shit happened and now it doesn't matter how I feel about it. It doesn't fucking matter how I feel about it because I have to wake up tomorrow morning and go into work like every other damn day of my life. I have to put food on the table at the end of the day. I have to pay the light bill. I have to do the same shit as everyone else. How do I feel? I feel like I need a mother fucking break from life.
"Norm, are you going to answer?"
"I'm figuring it out."
You condescending piece of shit. You sit there in that chair and you ask me these simplistic answers, attempting to get me to dig deep for some answers through equally simplistic responses. I know what you're doing, but again, it doesn't matter.
I had damned dreams. I had goals for my fucking life before shit hit the fan. I wanted to make something out of my life and now I just wake up and feel like grabbing the fucking bottle.
"It is odd, Dr. Shrellin. I just don't know how life got to this point."
"Norm, I've told you before. Just call me Alice. I'm your friend, but let's talk about what choices you made to get here."
You're not a fucking friend. A friend is someone you meet at a bar, someone you have common interests in, Alice. I have been forced to come see you as my therapist. Someone who I pretend isn't just as fucked up as I am. But I know, Alice. I know you hit that bottle like there's no tomorrow once you're done with your work day. You've probably got escorts on speed dial, or hiding some inner lesbian cuckhold fantasy. You probably have to smoke a thousand dollars worth of weed a week just so you don't get so pissed off you slam someone's head against a wall.
How I got here, though? How I got here was fucking simple - I made choices. I made the choice to drop what I wanted out of life because I played the safe bets and found excitement in the wrong places. Well, all bets fail sooner or later. That's how I got here. Living with the failure of those bets, how the fuck do I deal with that, Alice?
"I'm not sure, doctor. I mean, I kind of just floated along the river of life and now I'm waking up to where I've floated to."
Where I've floated to? What the fuck am I even saying now? I sound like some children's after school special. What I've done is taken unfulfilling jobs because it is a paycheck, dated shitbags because they offered excitement in my life, and been completely unable to find a balance between those things and my goals. That's what the fuck I've done, Alice. And now I'm stuck being hyper-aware of my situation in life.
"So what do you plan on doing now?"
So yeah, after my wife left me for the younger, more exciting artist, that mother fucker, I went off on my boss. Sure, maybe I even threw the phone book at the wall, conveniently placed behind his head. Yeah, I probably caused a scene when I got up out of my chair and yelled the word fuck at the top of my lungs, which led me to the office and phone book in the first place. Can you blame me? I mean, really?
"I don't know, doctor."
"Well, how does all this make you feel, Norm?"
Again with this fucking question, Alice? Can't you reword it with your fancy ass degree? Can't you make it seem more interesting? Can't you do something other than just fucking ask a question?
"Mad. I feel mad."
-Dustin S. Stover
