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You know, I recently went to see a therapist. Yeah, trying to get my life together, you know? First thing she said when I walked in, "Tell me about your childhood." I'm like, "Lady, we've got 45 minutes; my childhood was a whole season of 'Dora the Explorer'." But I'm telling her about it, and she's like, "That must've been tough." And I'm like, "No kidding, you try finding that fox every episode!
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I feel like a therapist's office is just the modern-day confessional. Instead of a priest, you spill your guts to someone who went to school for a decade and has a degree on their wall that costs more than my entire house. And instead of saying ten Hail Marys, they just tell you to do some deep breathing and maybe take up yoga. Can I get an amen?
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Ever wonder if your therapist is also moonlighting as a fortune teller? Every time I say something, she's like, "Ah, interesting, tell me more." I'm waiting for her to pull out a crystal ball and say, "I see... I see... you will pay me another session fee." And here I thought the crystal ball was just for decor!
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You ever think about the secrets that therapist's couch must've heard over the years? I bet if it could talk, it'd be like, "Man, if I had a dime for every time someone cried about their childhood or their ex!" I mean, that couch has probably heard more about my secrets than my own mother. At least the couch doesn't judge; it just absorbs... literally.
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