The Shrink

The Shrink

My shrink came again today. “I think I’m suicidal,” I say. He takes a note. “I’m definitely suicidal,” a little soft this time. I hope he leans in and touches my face with his psychiatrist breath. He leaves.

My shrink came again today. He had binoculars. I tell him that he can see depression perfectly well from where he is and doesn’t need to keep bringing props. He reaches into his psychiatrist bag and starts throwing bread. I eat some and it’s really delicious, yum. He leaves.

My shrink came again today. “Hey, buddy,” he chirps at me. I’m like fuck you, you can’t just refuse to give me a prescription, I need it. He scribbles something on a notepad, takes a picture of me and leaves.

My shrink came again today. “You’re the worst psychiatrist ever,” I inform him. He takes notes on what I have said and how I have walked and when I pooped a little bit. He leaves.

My shrink came again today. He brought his shrink friends with him. “Look it’s a bird,” he says to the entire staff of National Geographic. I am sure this is some sort of breach of doctor-patient confidentiality.