New rule: If my therapist really wants me to be “comfortable,” I have to be allowed to take off my bra. And have a glass of wine.

But I guess that’s how some porno movies start, so maybe that’s not what I’m going for.

Then AGAIN, I am pretty much never more comfortable than I am post-orgasm.

So. Ideal therapeutic session: slightly tipsy, bra-less, post-coital. *nod* I think I’ve found my business model.

In which heavenly beings offer me imaginary contraception.

Tonight I went to a “mindful” yoga class, trying to relax and learn to be more present.

While lying back on a pile of pillows with our legs open, the instructor told us to imagine a divine being offering us a magical sponge to absorb our impurities.

My divine being was Angel from “Buffy,” and the sponge was contraceptive.

I think I did it wrong.