We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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She continues to tease with the constant twirling of her light caramel hair around the pencil in her hand, muttering a series of sweet sounding words while she is at it.
Of course it's just my luck that I got an appointment with a recently graduated student, who is more picky about the acid wash of her denim shorts than the quality of the leg rest in her consultation office. Don't even get me started on the way she occasionally giggles at me– mostly every time I pull open a button of my shirt to get some air in this six by six closed casket. I'd absolutely hate to find another therapist to help me get over these creepy stares, I'm bound to face every other week.
When my parents suggested I go see a shrink to cope with all drama happening around my life, I almost laughed in their faces. It's cute how they believe, chit chatting for an hour with some psych major, who wants to earn quick cash to pay off the instalments of her Honda, will help me get over the fact that a whole patch of my life got wiped out just like that. All it took was a slam on the brakes and everything basically went it hell. Not to leave out all the court visits to get that dog back in it's cage. Yet again.
"You know, it would really help if you're more open about your feelings with me," she intently looks at me, batting those fake eyelashes. Too bad, I invented the handbook she is desperately scraping pages off of.
"I'm glad you asked, because I have been particularly struggling in a department since these bad boys gave up," I heave a sigh, playing along as she picquet interest. "Going down during intercourse is becoming a hell of a task for me."
Her mouth hangs open at my statement, washing off the peach liquid she has layered her doughy skin with. She consciously covers the bare skin flashing above the waist line of her jean shorts before returning back to the sticky notes on her clipboard. I bet, hawt is penned down in capital in one of those silly chits of paper.
"So, in all seriousness, how're you coping with this sudden change in your life?"
The therapist handbook's in play I guess. "Well, I'm waking up everyday, eating a three course meal, taking a bath, doing my homework, and catching up on old video tapes of all the championships I have ever played... because that's what I apparently do now," I take another spiteful sip of the caffeinated Kool-Aid sitting in front of me.
It's a shitty filter coffee, you can only find in la casa de therapy.
"George, I get that this isn't something you can deal with overnight, and it is unreal for someone to even expect so. Take your time, and do whatever seems good to you right now. I won't push you to get back to your old routine, but it would only benefit you if you try to reinstate some of those things already," she throws a genuine smile at me, except that the dripping desire is still very much visible.
Anything is better than the classic sympathy nod, though.
"I guess we are done for the day," I don't even bother to take a glance at the antique clock hanging off the pale pink walls, and pull the wheelchair to my side.
