Disclaimer: We own nothing, except the plot.
I can't believe Mama. She never cared once to even send me someplace to get me help, and now, today of all days—a Monday to be more exact, ugh, Mondays are just fucking dreadful—she finally gets the nerve to send me to one of those psycho doctors. Well, a therapist.
I don't like therapists. If you split the word into two parts, it totally spells the rapist, and that's just fucking creepy as fuck.
Anyway, my doctor, Dr. Miller, told me that I "had trouble opening up about my feelings," and I just stared at her, because she's totally lying, because, well, I would know if I "had trouble opening up about my feelings." And I don't, 'cause I open up about my feelings all the time.
It's just that nobody's around to listen to me.
I'm pathetic.
I had to stay in that Goddamn place for an hour. Maybe more. I don't know. I don't care. She just spat shit out to me, and then when she finally noticed I wasn't even paying a bit of attention, she threw this fucking composition book at me and told me to "write down my thoughts and problems" in here. I tried to tell her that I didn't have any thoughts or problems, and she just got even angrier at me. I mean, I swear, smoke was blowing out of her ears and nose, like a frickin' dragon.
But of course, dragons aren't real. So, that must mean she isn't real. And if she isn't real, then this notebook I'm supposed to "write down my thoughts and problems" in isn't real. So, that means I can't "write down my thoughts and problems."
Fuck her; I'm not even going to write in here anymore. I'm just doing it for a day—just one simple day.
And then, I'm gonna stop, 'cause I don't want the dragon to read my stuff. She said she wasn't going to, but I know she will, because why else would she want me to bring it to her to our next session in a couple days?
She's weird, I'm weird, everybody's weird.
Except, well, the guy that's sleeping on my bedroom floor, in the corner.
Yeah.
He's not weird.
He's perfect.
