Thurrapy

To those who said I should honestly consider therapy:

I’m honestly considering therapy.

Don’t you pity me, though, because I’m thinking I’m gonna like it. Venting to someone who’s paid to give at least one fuck about my problems without that weird feeling of knowing that I’ll have to see them later at home. BLAM! Sounds pretty saucy to me. Plus I hear the free…

Free

Yeah, FREE!

…campus service comes with opportunities to relax in their free…

STILL fucking free!

…massage chairs. That means I can head over there whenever I want, get myself a walk-in appointment and free…

“Sit your bitch ass down, son.”

…my mind of anything that might be troublin’ my poor little head.

You may be asking, “Why therapy? What could have sparked your interest in such a thing?” Lemme start by saying it ain’t nothin’ but some bullshit. I’ve been noticing little things about myself and others that really just get my blood a-boilin’.  For instance, I’m starting to get a little twitch. Not like that one public defender from My Cousin Vinny. No, it’s more like a Me, Myself and Irene kind of twitch where I really just feel like turning on some Pantera and going apeshit crazy in a truck stop restroom. I’m thinking that should be taken care of as soon as possible. Good? Good.

As for others, these past couple of days have shed some light on the minute things that get my fists clenched. I’ll give you a prime example:

Yesterday I was walking in the rain back to my dorm building. Mind you, it’s colder than Kristen Stewart’s facial expressions out there and raining like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock. As I approach the door a girl approaches it from the other side. Naturally she reaches it before I do, so I stand — in the cold fucking RAIN — waiting for this girl to scan us in with her ID. Now, this chick has a purse. Not just any purse. This purse was handed down by her great grandma Mary Poppins. It has everything from chewing gum and tampons to War and Peace and a fucking pull-out couch. This purse is a BEAST. So she’s digging through the Kraken when finally she grabs something. It’s her card right?

WRONG.

She pulls out this metallic wallet looking thing. As she opens it I see that she apparently has three credit cards from every goddamn major company, Aeropostale and Hollister gift cards, receipts, random papers and what appears to be a scratch-n-sniff sticker from the latest Spy Kids 4D experience. Beneath this encased fustercluck is her ID right?

WRONG x2.

At this point I move in as if I’m going to swipe my ID so both of us can get warm and dry. Hell, I even do it with a smile. Think she moved out of the way so Uncle Charlie could save the day?

ABSOTIVELY POSIFUCKINGLUTELY NOT.

All she does is turn her head and gives me a glare while she reaches in her pocket. Guess what’s in there… Her ID! She dipped into her hellhole of a purse for a good two minutes. I’m pretty sure I heard gunshots and screams while she was lost in there. And her ID was in her pocket the whole damn time! That was round one.

RAAAAGE!

Round two came today when I was in the Union.

I swear this story is shorter…

So I’m in the bathroom of the Union. Jamming to some Lamb of God, you know. I get done washing my hands and was about to leave. You’ll never guess who decided come into the bathroom after me? It was Jet Ass Whoopin’ Li! Not really, but the guy could have been Jet Li. “It’s because he was Asian isn’t it?” Well…yes…but that’s not why. This dastardly fucker apparently needs to mimic Johnny Cage’s shadow kick whenever he enters a bathroom or any other place with a door. I’m standing about two feet from my escape when this guy kicks this door open and hits me in the arm. It’s not a hard push or a nudge with his foot, it’s a goddamn KICK. Like he lifted his leg, bent his knee, summoned the power of the Lotus, let out a “hee-aw!!” and kicked the damn door. Now, I know for a FACT he wasn’t in a rush because this little prick had time to back up, let me out and notice the “I’m going to set you on fire later” look on my face. Like a dumb dog he just stared and shrugged. Once I passed he strolled casually in and did his thing, door off its hinges and all. At this point I crank on “Foot to the Throat” and start to believe I’m Steven Seagal on a hit mission. Oh, and my fucking arm killed for a while. Sumbitch.

Careful when you go to the Union bathrooms. He’s still there.

The third strike occurred just a few hours ago when I just wanted to check my mail. That’s really all I wanted to do. And at this point I was having a pretty decent day. I go down to the wall of mailboxes, hoping all the way down something good might be in there. A letter from Grandma, a check from someone (anyone), or someone’s magazine that they accidentally put in my box. A man can dream. Anywho, I get there and see a girl standing right in front of where I need to be. I’m trying my best to be patient with her. I wait there and whistle in my head tunes of my childhood to calm my nerves: “A Whole New World,” “This Land,” “Fuck tha Police.” You know the sort. I’m midway through Eazy-E’s part (R.I.P.) when I realize this girl hasn’t moved. Not only is she standing around apparently awaiting the Rapture or the next Twilight or some kinda shit, she’s actually going through each piece of mail she has in her hand. She’s opening each individual letter, pulling it out, reading it and setting it aside to do the same for the rest. After about three to five minutes she finally left, but not after noticing I was behind her. Giving me a big smile, she grabbed her shit and was on her way.

“Anyone else get mail?”

Why do I need therapy? Because no one else thinks they do.

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