Saturday, November 19, 2005

Should I be worried?

Okay, I'm returning the dress tomorrow -- I got bored of my reflection.


How would you describe your chocolate soy beverage?

"It doesn't taste like milk. More like liquid dark chocolate squeezed from the teat of a bean."

What the fuck ...?

"Yeah, I don't quite get it myself."


My therapist's name is Lazarus. No last name. Just "Lazarus." In the same vein as Cher, Jesus, and Wendy's. I've been assigned a clinical psychologist who shares the same monicker as a resurrected dead man from the New Testament. I got Herr Doktor: Dawn of the Dead. An honoured guest at a Boris Karloff charity event. Mister Off-Duty Pulse.

He's also Greek.

"You know psychology is a load of fluff, right?" Readerdroid said through the phone. "I've worked at a psych lab, I've studied psychology, nothing about it is concrete."

Dr. Phil is a load of fluff, but he still maintains his highfalutin lifestyle making grown women cry on national television. ("I have feelings! I am worthy of love! I will beat this chair until the show's producers ask me to stop and cue the emotionally manipulative music!" It's fluff with retroactive substance!) Besides, the service is free and I want to get my tuition's worth. And, in all honesty, I'd like to tell someone details about my life exposed for a purpose beyond satisfying voyeuristic curiosity and garnering pity (because underneath, we've all been suicide bombers seeking martyrdom). I want to reveal parts of myself substantiated by progress, not validation. And being 19, I'm not so self-assured and bull-headed to refuse help. I mean, I don't want to be pushing 50 and continue making sisyphusian mistakes, then expect to be taken care of as if I was still contributing to society.

Superficiality is a stubborn stain. I don't want to be known as "that" girl.

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