I fired my therapist and psychiatrist yesterday. It was a dispute over a balance that I had incurred. Ask anyone who knows me and the first thing they will tell you is that I am knows that I am meticulous with money. So the blame is obviously on the evil psychiatric behavioral industrial complex. And not me. Never me.
Wednesday was awful. I got in a raised voice with the receptionist at my behavioral health center on Chicago's fabulous Magnificent Mile. Exchanged icy looks and words with my psychiatrist, abandoned my umbrella that obviously had a hole in it, fought with Sallie Mae, stood outside in the rain waiting for busses for 30 minutes multiple times, lost my headphones multiple times.
My only saving grace was listening to the angry sexy genius raps of Mr. Marshall Mathers. My beautiful blond Eminem. My angry best friend, my muse. Allegedly misogynistic, playfully homophobic and slightly deranged. Just how I like him.
Until I losty headphones. Fucking stringy, tangled, earpieces always falling off, balled up in my pocket. I had three pairs and left them all at work and they were.gone the next morning. On the floor. Cleaning people at work? Good for them.
You can have them. You deserve it. Cleaning up after me. Take everything else while you're at it. My files, my computer, my pens that are all out of ink, my job, my life. Take it and run with it. See if you can make something out of my island of misfit toys, my menagerie of hopes and dreams and cigarettes and lube and neurosis and Direct TV and various magazine subscriptions I dont read. Take it, cleaning woman or man. Clean it all up, organize my internal and external crap, Windex the shit out of it and sell it all on eBay. My heart, my soul, my life. Get 20 bucks and order a pizza. Make a night out of it.
