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You ever been to a therapist? I recently started seeing one. I figured, why not pay someone to listen to my problems? It's like having a friend, but you actually have to leave your house and pay them! I walk into the therapist's office, and it's all calm and serene. Soft music playing, comfy chairs, and a little bowl of decorative rocks that I'm pretty sure are just there to make you question your life choices.
Therapists are like detectives for your feelings. They analyze every word you say, trying to unlock the mystery of your messed-up mind. It's like a game of emotional Clue, and instead of Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick, it's me in the therapist's office with crippling self-doubt.
But hey, at least I get to lie down on the couch. It's like the only socially acceptable place for adults to nap. I'm there pouring my heart out, and in the back of my mind, I'm thinking, "Man, this is comfy. Do you think they'd notice if I just took a quick power nap?"
And then there's the classic therapist question, "How does that make you feel?" I'm like, "Doc, if I knew how it made me feel, I wouldn't be paying you to help me figure it out!" It's like trying to describe the taste of water. You know it when you feel it, but putting it into words is a whole other story.
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I've spent more time on therapy couches than I have on my own couch at home. I'm starting to think my therapist's office is where I actually live, and my apartment is just a place I visit once in a while. The therapist's couch is like a confessional, but instead of absolution, you get a bill at the end. It's a holy place where you spill your guts and hope that when you leave, you're a little less messed up than when you walked in.
You ever notice how therapists always have these soothing voices? They could make a fortune narrating audiobooks for insomniacs. "Chapter one: The riveting tale of why you can't have healthy relationships." Put that on repeat, and you'll be out like a light in no time.
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I heard they have puzzles in psychiatric wards. Puzzles! Because nothing says "Let's fix your brain" like trying to fit oddly shaped pieces together. It's like, "Hey, we couldn't solve the puzzle of your life, so let's see how you do with a 500-piece landscape of kittens." I imagine a therapist watching you struggle with a puzzle, nodding approvingly, like, "Yes, yes, you're making progress. Now, if only your life were as easy to piece together as this Thomas Kinkade masterpiece."
And don't even get me started on group therapy. It's like a support group for people who can't figure out why they're in a support group. You sit in a circle, and everyone takes turns sharing their deepest, darkest secrets. It's like a game of emotional poker, and the guy across from you just went all-in with a story about talking to his toaster.
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I recently got a prescription from my therapist. It's like a permission slip for your brain. "Take two of these and call me in the morning." But have you ever read the side effects? It's like a horror novel condensed into a tiny pamphlet. I'm reading through them, and it's like, "May cause drowsiness, dizziness, hallucinations, and an overwhelming desire to take up interpretive dance." I'm thinking, "Are these side effects or a to-do list for my weekend?"
And then there's the part that says, "Do not operate heavy machinery." Well, that's great. I was planning on driving my forklift to work tomorrow, but I guess I'll have to stick with the escalator.
I asked my therapist about the side effects, and he said, "Oh, don't worry about it. It's just a formality." Formality? I'm pretty sure "uncontrollable urge to yodel" is more than just a formality.
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