When I told my therapist I was having a hard time getting myself to respond to OkCupid messages, even when I WANTED to, and I went over my previous experiences with online dating, she said, “Well, yeah, that makes sense. If you’d tried ice skating 10 times and ended up breaking an ankle every time, you probably wouldn’t be too excited to try again.”YUP.
Text to a friend: “I didn’t know that was weird until my therapist told me.”
This should be the title of my debut novel.
My therapist compared letting assholes get to me with the cops greasing the light poles in Philly after the Eagles won the Super Bowl so dipshits couldn’t climb them: “How do we make it so assholes’ comments slide off you a little easier?”
I tried to convince her that’s what I’m doing with all the mozzarella sticks and stromboli — greasing my psyche — but I don’t think she bought it.
I had FaceTime therapy this morning because technology is wonderful, but now I have to, like…think about things? Like, what I…want from my life? Specifically re: relationships.
Um, isn’t that what I pay YOU for? You have a degree in Life. I have a degree in radio journalism. You tell me what to do, I announce it in the fancy news voice that belies my shitty Philly accent.
Get on that jawn, yo. I’ll be over here eating Brownie Brittle for breakfast. Report back.
I spent the day with some family, and just went to text their latest gossip to my sister. But then my brain went, “You really wanna start THAT conversation? Remember, insurance hasn’t started supplementing therapy costs yet.”
Good call, Brain.
This is actually a handy system, minding my mental efforts according to how much it’s going to cost me to fix the anticipated outcome.
Speaking of, who’s proud of me for lying to my stepdad’s face when he asked how my car’s been running? 🙋🏻