He asked me to do a phone call. To a therapist. Or whatever they're called; the ones that make you lye down on a fancy couch while they sit in a chair, listening to your problems.
My dad wants me to call a therapist and have a conversation with him. Well clearly, my dad is clueless and doesn't know how therapists do it. But it doesn't matter. My dad thinks I have a problem and we won't let go of it until I call a specialist. So I dial the number my dear dad found on the Internet. And it rings. I have this unbearable urge to throw the phone out the window, or on my dad's face. But the therapist picks up.
-Hello, doctor Willingstone's office, how can I help you?
-Ehm... Are you the therapist?
-No but would you like to schedule an appointment?
I can't handle it. His accent is increadible. He might be British, or Australian ; I can't quite make the difference. His voice is deep, but not a forty-five-year-old man's. He sounds like he can sing really well.
-Hello?
-Yes, um... I was wondering if I could talk with him on the phone?
-I believe it's impossible, doctor Willingstone is only doing appointments.
-Ok, ya, I understand.
-Can I get your number and your name?
-It's 599-623-4429 and my name is Lauren Hencksfree.
-Thankyou. Oh, and we're available either tonight at 7:45 or in two weeks, at the same time.
- Can I call you back to confirm?
-Of course, yes. Goodbye.
-Bye.
Dear lord, I just wanted him to keep on talking. He must be handsome, no, hot. Both.
- So that was a quick conversation. What did the therapist say?
- Dad, I already told you: they don't do it on the phone. I have to go for an appointment. Either tonight or in two weeks.
-Tonight.
Great... Just great. At least I'll probably see the boy that has a high chance of being hot and handsome.
