Congratufuckinglations

Congratufuckinglations, today is mandated by the court and you’re about to chew the cuticle out from under your nail, third finger from the right, the one you use to express yourself in traffic. Speaking of which, you waited forty nine minutes in a foreign death-cab-for-cutie to get here, and now this: “I apologize for the inconvenience but the Doctor is running late. Feel free to wait in her office, third door from the right…”

The sweater your mother gave you for Christmas last year; it smells like death, it’s starting to itch. It’s too fucking early for you to be up right now and just in case you’re keeping track, you’ve been wearing the same sneakers for two and a half years now. The soles are gone. You’d be better off bare-foot. You’d be better off without any clothes at all. Hell, you’d be better off with just one less personality disorder. Sometimes, you’d be better off dead, if only you could survive it.
The room you’re in, it’s on the 32nd story. It’s a good thing you’re not afraid of heights. You’re not afraid of anything, are you? There’s a woman behind the curtains and if she had a face, you couldn’t see it anyway. Like inverted swan legs, her pasty arms thrust the city into view. The fog of war creeping in, it’s not natural light, it’s reflected radiation. Everything is fucking radioactive. The mystery woman doesn’t speak; she knows the light is really pissing you off. Her name tag reads Dr. Sandre Gupta, the woman without a face. Her tits are nice, firm, twenty six years old tits, she just finished paying them off.
Her waist is fertile at best, but her face, where the hell is it?

The first time she sees you, she already knows you’re a fucking loon; she’s got your file stuffed in the first drawer to the right. The way sits down at her desk, hiding behind her Mica laden nameplate; she’s pretending to be professional. She’s trying to be impartial. It’s not working. The ways her eyes avoid you; you can tell she’s been having sex with dolphins. In other words, she’s seen more pussy than you’ve seen fish at a fish market. Whore. She opens her mouth to speak, the awful promise of pseudoscience, this better be the last time…

      “So tell me, how do you feel?”

            “Right now?”

               “Yes, right now.”

     Right now is exactly eleven seconds. Right now is a series of depressive flashbacks, random outbursts and perpetual cynicism.
Right now is the time between an old white shoelace and death by strangulation.

       Eleven seconds and you’ve already scared the shit out of her. Good work. She’s going to do cartwheels when she finds out what’s next.

       Twelve seconds. So you strangle the bitch.  When she starts to cry, you’ll promise to stop. Fuck. She’s dry. Nothing. She’s too busy trying to hang on. What a waste.

        Seven minutes later and she’s dead as dead, stretched out like some augmented starfish. Who would have known?

        Seven minutes later and you notice her eyes. They match the sky; so pale, so blue, so common. Right now, it’s about time to wake up. Your therapy session is about to start but you don’t need therapy; there couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with you, right?