This was writen by another friend of mine. I thought it was hilarious and I needed to share it with people.
My mom had finally decided that I'd cracked. That was the only explanation for why I was currently sitting on a comfy red leather couch being stared at by a man in chunky glasses. Which could only mean I was in one place: the therapist's office. My therapist had an uncanny resemblance to Emmett Cullen. I mean, he was huge! And that, my sane friends, is the reason I am here. I have what you call a "Fictional Infatuation" with the Cullen family. Which, in easy terms for those of you who are few french fries short of a happy meal, means that I believe that the Cullen's are real and that if I were to go to Forks, Washington, I will find a white house in the middle of nowhere and inside there will be a family of vampires, and one human, waiting for me.
"Now, Miss Medenblik. Can you tell me why you are here?" Oh purr-lease. Like that file there didn't tell him!
"No good movies were playing, so I thought, 'I'll go have a good chat with my good friend the steroid-taking therapist.' So here I am." I saw his hand tighten around his pen. Obviously I had struck a chord. AlyMed is my name, and annoying people is my game.
"I believe the reason you are here, among many others I'm sure, is because you have an unnatural obsession with a certain series of books." I raised one of my eyebrows. Oh no he didn't! Three snaps in a z formation! That crossed the line...
"Did you just call them "books"? They are so much more than books; they're like the Bible, only with not so many big words. I take offense to that, Mr. Therapist Man." He smoothed his page and began scribbling on it.
"I see your mom was correct. Can you explain why at school last week, you broke into the office and took over the P.A. system, screaming 'Everyone sing Happy Birthday to Edward Cullen! He's 107 today!'?"
"I think the obvious reason was that it was his birthday. I also think 107 is a very important mile-stone for a boy like Edward." Cue montage of various shots of Edward, such as Edward shirtless, Edward being emo with his hair in front of his face, Edward laughing in slow motion, etc.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm watching an Edward montage in my mind. It's set to "Teardrops On My Guitar" by Taylor Swift. It's amazing; I wish you could see it." I stared at him, my eye twitching, trying to send it to him by mind e-mail. Apparently it didn't work.
"Are you having a seizure? Do you need medical assistance?" A brilliant plan popping into my head, I shook my head and began shaking my body hard, hard enough to knock me out of the couch and onto the floor. He shot to his feet and rushed out into the lobby. Stupid man, he should have just used the intercom. I quickly pulled a black Sharpie out of my bag, and leapt to the window.
Therapist Man's Point of View!
First the girl accuses me of using steroids, and then she goes and has a seizure. She needs serious help, much more than I can give her. I rushed back into my office, after calling 911, expecting to find the girl were I left her. She was nowhere to be found, I swung around to face the window.
There wrote in humungous bubble letters was the phrase, "EDWARD LIVES!"
I need a vacation.