HUMOR

I Don’t Go To Therapy To Make Friends. I Go To Win.

Part I

I’ve been increasingly unable to enjoy people. My social circle has shrunk to the point that my cats own a devastatingly significant percentage of the stock.

When you spend too much time with cats and no one else, you start seeing the world the way they do:

“Will you serve me? Can I kill you?”

I’ve had therapy before, but this time (2 months ago) I wanted a master therapist, a monk on a mountain who would let me do the talking, politely interrupt me now and then to say, “Brilliant,” and then give me the answer: “It’s not you. You’re unquestionably the best. It’s everyone else.”

So, I sought a mountain topper of the field. A psychologist. The word scares me with its power and German length. Good. I wanted scary-good help. I’ve learned that if it doesn’t scare you, you’re not doing it right.

I went with the psychologist closest to me because I wanted help as fast as possible. I didn’t realize, though, that I’d picked a forensic psychologist, the kind who proves the cat wasn’t insane at the time of the crime and…