Yesterday I had an appointment with my shrink dude. Not the one I call "the angel" but the other one. The weird one who never seems to get my name right. I hear him shuffling down the hallway every time (true religion jeans go swish swish) and then I hear that terrible, dreadful name...

"Lateeeeesha, I'm ready for you now."

DOH! ICK! ACK! I DIEEEEE. My name is LaTisha, but I go by Tish. If my name were Lateeeesha then I'd go by Teeeeesh, but I don't. See how that works?

There's something disturbing about a man who can't remember the correct pronunciation of my name giving me drugs.

He likes to ask me these random questions, then I answer and he doodles. I swear he's secretly testing me for craziness because we never have a at all. He interrupted me mid-story and asked if Jersey was Korean. When I said he was Filipino he went back to writing and my butt twitched.

Shrinks. Can't live with 'em, can't get happy pills without them!

Go in the little room. Hit the top secret (labeled) magical button that alerts the shrink and wait...wait...wait


  1. I can't lol. He's more of the dude that says "hey the pills aren't making you a spaz so we'll keep you on them." my THERAPIST is the angel who needs to really know that ish.

    ...ironically I no longer have to see her. Just hilarious that this dude is cluless.


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