Sometimes I fantasize about having a therapist of my very own. Someone I can talk to whenever the need arises – like at the beginning of every day for encouragement. And at the end of every night to console me.
I can just see it now. I would lie on her brown couch. Stare up at her beige ceiling and confess about my failings of the day. And she (Yes. “She”. It’s my fantasy and I want it to be a female, damn it!) would forgive me on behalf of the rest of the world.
I can hear her voice in my mind’s ear now . . .
“It’s okay. I know you meant to get more done. There, there. It’s not YOUR fault. It’s bad Spider Solitaire’s fault.”
And then I would pay her $100 and walk out feeling like FINALLY someone understood me.
What?! Oh because your fantasies are better?