I once had a therapist named Inga when I was around 14 years old. She was a nice lady who had a bit of an accent, but I could still kind of understand what she was saying. Of course I didn’t play well with her because I was an extremely depressed and angst-riddled teenager with a huge chip on my shoulder. The last thing that I wanted to do was to open up and talk to this woman about my “feelings.”

So I didn’t. I was such a bitch.

My mother had told Inga that I enjoyed writing poetry and short stories.

“Why don’t you write me something?” Inga had asked me.

I shrugged and took the paper and pen that she handed me. She left me alone in the room. Being the asshat that I was back then, I came up with the most morbid story that my disturbed young mind could come up with on such short notice.

The look on that poor therapists face while she read my handiwork stays with me to this day.

This kid is fucking whackadoodle.

She eventually gave up on me and I was handed over to some dude. He made me take a bunch of tests, including the inkblot.

It’s clearly two dogs fighting over a sausage.

He never said anything, but instead wrote notes and nodded his head gravely. I have no idea what the outcome was, but nobody ever tried to put a straitjacket on me, so that’s a plus.

I was the lucky one in my entire family who was born with OCD, major depression and generalized anxiety disorder. Everyone else from what I can conclude doesn’t even come close to being as fucked up as I am.


It could be worse, right?

I’m sorry for being such a fucking brat, Inga.

Have a fantastic Fuck It Friday.