When I turned 30, I promised myself 2 things: therapy and a house keeper. Every two weeks, someone tells me I'm right and someone else dusts. Clean house, clean mind. A year later, the house keeper is gone. I couldn't justify the expense of both and, as it turns out, I like the instant gratification of vacuuming. Also, I have a Dyson, which is extra badass.
The therapist stayed.
How could she not? She is doing good work. If you've read this blog, you know I have issues. And she listens. I drone on about my life and whine and bitch and she has to pretend to be interested. It's brilliant. $30 a session and she agrees with me. Don't misunderstand. She tells me when I'm wrong. Just not often. She knows what's good for her.
The downside is that between therapy and Twitter I was getting all (okay, most) of my bitching out of my system. Doesn't leave a lot for blogging. But then the wonder and magic of the human spirit took over. I have come to realize that my capacity for anger and agitation is well beyond what I realized. Exponentially infinite. I have found fresh new things to hate. Things that only once got a passing scowl are now given the true weight of my anger. With the real issues settling, I can focus my energy on hating things like E! online, eggs, Body by Jake, people who drink white zinfandel, and James Cameron.
Get a therapist, people. That and smoking are the only things that set us apart from the apes. Even better, get a therapist in a smoking office and tell those monkeys where to shove it.
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