therapy notes, part three

Sunday night, the last night of my self-imposed isolation hidden away from public eyes. Thank you Oscar, Scorsese and his ilk insured that the last of those camera-hugging bottom feeding whores left my habitat for the more fertile feeding ground of sunny California.

On Thursday the Hot Receptionist greeted and treated me again with nonchalance and the coyly flirtatious mannerisms that have become a trademark of our official meetings while I wait to meet with my court ordered therapist, the prick. And damn it all if I can't help but wonder why. I mean, her post-coital response is not what I expected. Lord knows I've been down this road a few times before. I'm a Barrington, single, filthy rich and insanely attractive. I know she's impressed, how could she not be? I rocked her freakin' world.

Where's the anxious idolation, the nervous wondering if I'm the knight in shining armor coming to save her from the mundane realities of her existence? Really now, she knows who I am. She has nothing and I have everything to offer.

Not that I am.

Oh well, it matters little to me anyway.

About halfway through Thursday's session, my court ordered therapist, the prick, finally went there. I knew he would. I'm almost surprised it took him this long. How could he not? My court ordered therapist, the prick, finally asked me the question. Yes, that question. You know, the most famous question associated with this whole therapy bullshit that's not technically phrased in the form of a question although you know it is one.

Tell me about your mother.

I went ballilstic.

My response went roughly as follows:

I was like, "Look man, don't go getting all dead repressed homo-faggot, not that there's anything wrong with that, Austrian cocaine fiend on my ass."

He sat there blankly, so I ranted on, "Sure, a cigar is just a cigar, unless you wish it was some other guy's dick you're sucking. Is that what you wish mister head shrinker? I'll bet it is. I see the dirty yet suspiciously always empy ashtray on your desk and can smell the remnants of cheap tobacco in this office."

He still sat there with a blank look as he slowly set down his pen and notepad. There was a moment of awkward silence. I continued, "Just 'cause his mom was his number one MILF don't go thinkin' that's got shit to do with me."

Again, nothing but an empty look in questioning eyes followed by an awkward silence. He said something in that therapeutic and prodding gentle condescending tone that all those bastards are trained to use about "making progress" as he picked up his pen.

"Fuck you, man. Fuck you."

I got up and stormed out of his office and onto the street. I muttered something to The Hot Receptionist about seeing her again Tuesday as I flew past. I avoided the temptation of punching that mosquita with the camera on the curb as I went by. It's just to risky now to give the camera-hugging whore the satisfaction of having his ass kicked by a Barrington with legal issues. It's just so cliche. My father, The Bastard, already has that down to an art form, so there's no point in it anyway.

So that was Thursday. In a few hours it will be Monday morning. A new week.

Here I am. Where the fuck are you?