The man in slush-dirtied Kenneth Cole knock-offs trudged through the industrial park. The Cup O’ Noodles clutched in his angry, defeated, ashamed, rueful hand followed. Or something to that Stephen King’s The Gunslinger series effect.
Archive for the ‘Brutal honesty’ Category
The company I am temping for has a branch that is specifically for training new employees. This is where I am based.
Here’s a personal truth – I like big, stupid, ridiculous, blockbuster action flicks. If your movie has intensive CGI, theater-shaking explosions, martial arts, motorcycle chases, evil women who kill, spaceships, robots, natural disasters, spandexed people with mutant abilities, rocket launchers fired backwards for laughs, or anything that requires sheepish actors to act against a green screen and opposite an “X” made out of tape, there’s a distinct possibility I’m in your theater. This brings us to the Transformers franchise. These are some stupid movies. But they’re BIG, EXPENSIVE, VISUALLY THRILLING stupid movies and the robots transforming from vehicles (and now dinosaurs!) into robots is so thrilling. The fifth grader in me wants all the toys, and wants to be riding in Bumblebee when the Deceptacons attack and Bumblebee has to quick change to a robot and I go flying through the air and over a bridge and HE CATCHES ME and sparks and crashes and he turns back into a car and I’m safe! The CGI that James Cameron-lite director Michael Bay provides is top notch, and I can honestly say that the Transformers flick prior to this weekend’s Transformers: Age of Extinction had some of the loveliest and movie-experience enhancing 3D I’ve ever experienced. So, yeah, dumb movies.
So I see a therapist on the regular. I’ve been through maybe…five(?)… since the mid-90s. There have been some good ones that should be credited with my continued existence, and a couple of “eh” ones that ended up just being amusing anecdotes from my past. The following is about one of those.
While working in Wakefield for a number of years, I began seeing a gay male psychologist in not-even-nearby Beverly. Therapy wasn’t going well. Mainly because I wanted to sleep with my therapist. He was a burly salt-and-pepper sort who constantly wore snug trousers that highlighted his broad buttocks and he would laugh at my jokes with a boyish giggle that sent me (and my genitals) swooning. Our arrangement wasn’t very therapeutic. This became evident during one session when he confessed that he had “trouble being professional” around me. Oh, good. Like I inspire you not to do your job? I’m too far gone to take seriously? People wonder why I drink so much.
But I liked being a patient that he looked forward to seeing, even if it was just because I was an extra amusing part of his day. Being the class clown makes me feel like I have a reason for being around. That feeling was one of the reasons why I was IN therapy. So you see the cyclical dilemma I was experiencing with this therapist.
My attraction to this dude grew more and more. I started to seriously debate whether I could land him or not, and then thought about what a special moment that would be in my life. Torrid! And seedy when you think about it. I would be the wanton slut who caused a man to defy the Hippocratic Oath just so he could show me what those trousers were holding so snugly. It didn’t help that, back at the office, more than a few co-workers told me that they had crushes on their own therapists. So it was an office full of neurotics that were all fantasizing about nailing their shrinks. Our Christmas parties were legend.
My crush on my therapist, and the perceived sexual tension between us, was slashed to ribbons one day when he called me fat. He didn’t just come out and say “you’re fat.” And he didn’t try to broach the subject in a therapeutic, counseling-type manner. It was something he had been secretly thinking and that he accidentally blurted out.
He was leading me through guided meditation, designed to relieve stress and be “in the now”.
Shrink: Your eyes are closed. Now take some deep breaths. Hear the sound of my voice. Follow what I say.
Shrink: Picture a ball of light. It’s warm and comforting. It starts at the tip of your toes. It moves across them, taking away all your stress, all your pain. Now it’s rising and moving slowly and gently over your feet. It’s healing light absorbs all the fatigue, and all the negativity. Now it’s reached your ankles. You can feel the light reflecting upwards. It’s so soothing and warm. You’re beginning to feel totally relaxed and at peace. Now it’s going past your calves and it’s reached your knees, healing as it goes. Absorbing all the tension. Now it’s at your big thighs…
Me: *my eyes popped open* WHAT? Did you say ‘big thighs’? *incredulous*
Shrink: Sorry! Sorry, just – I meant…your thighs…close your eyes again and let me guide you back…
I looked at him for a second. The sonofabitch was SMIRKING. He was blushing. But he was also SMIRKING. And then he gave that giggle again!
My eyes closed again, as he tried to talk me back into that halcyon meadow or whatever and the ball of light came back. But the ball of light was having an issue. The ball of light barely emitted a glow now BECAUSE MY THIGHS WERE TOO FUCKING FAT TO ALLOW IT TO CAST ANY LIGHT ON THE REST OF MY BODY. This bitch just threw shade at my fat legs! I didn’t feel at peace. I felt betrayed! He was looking at my thighs and thinking “damn, he’s got some pudge on those ham hocks” and then accidentally said it!
I decided then and there that I would no longer be utilizing his services. And that his buttocks were not “broad” but “fat, fatter than the fattest things!”
Now I only see lesbian therapists. They could give a shit if I’m fat or not. Or if they do, they’ve got the internal editor switched on to “THINGS NOT TO TELL HIM”.
I’m clinically depressed, and I also have an anxiety disorder. I’m not whining. Just saying. Had it for most of my life. It ain’t going away. Survivors of childhood cancer, gay men, and children of alcoholics are prime for this sort of thing, and I’m all three. Anyway, I’m fine. I take meds, and I talk to someone, and I stick around and try to stay on top of it. It’s kinda all you can ask of me. I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not going anywhere.
Two things that make it worse:
1) Guilt about it. “It makes me a pussy, it’s all just excuses on my part to not excel at life, I’m a coward, I’m weak, etc.”
2) Anger. If it had physical symptoms, I feel like it would have less of a stigma. I don’t talk about it much with friends cuz’ there have been times when I’ve felt looked down upon by them over it. So I shut up about it and keep making jokes.
This is Hyperbole and Half. She’s an artist/blogger who had an awesome blog of drawings that poked fun at life. Then she vanished. She came back with this. Holy shit. I don’t know what else to say. She knows me. I want everyone in my life who knows me to fucking read this because now you know me. Well, a big part of me. And even if you shrug and don’t believe it or understand it, it’s ok. At least I’ll know you know now and can never say you don’t.
Time: 9:49 AM
Place: Off of Kendall Square
Sleep last night wasn’t happening, whether because of wedding worries or Scotty constantly putting the dog in our bed and then going to watch TV and the dog wanting to be with Scotty so it has to wake me up to get him to Scotty. Go fuck yourself, Cooper. Anyway, all I could think about during my MBTA commute was:
A) a medium hot tea with skim and three Splenda
B) the can of Diet Pepsi I was going to shotgun once I got to work (gay internet sex workers get free soda, it’s a perk and something to drink while you’re praying the next set of pics you have to look at doesn’t include a prolapsed rectum)
and I’m setting the next one apart so you realize it’s importance…
C) A COFFEE CAKE MUFFIN FROM DUNKIE’S
I got my muffin, but it was ruined due to me having the mobile table manners of a feral child. Read on.
I’m toying with blogging again. I’ve had lots of therapy. Hopefully my block is cleared. I’m just not sure what to write about. Little vignettes about my day? Even typing that made me want to shear off my face with something sharp. Posts about my hatred of things? I could write about celebrity bullshit, but did you guys know Michael K. at DListed hired me out of the blue to cover for him when he’s got the clap and it’s affecting his laptop? How fucking huge was that for my ass? So whenever there’s a holiday or he has a flare-up, it looks like I’ll be over there handling famous douche. I hope. FUCK, what if he decides I suck? That last thought was why I see a therapist once a week. Anyway, thay was a fucking dream come true. And ironic, seeing as in the post where I closed this blog, I noted that he was a way better writer than I am. Still true, but if you can’t beat em – beat them off.
I could post secrets people told me, but thinly veil them. SHROUD THEM. So “fucked his husband” becomes “got that used on Craigslist.”
The posts about what I saw on the T were pretty popular. But now I pay for parking. Did you guys know I work with my future husband…
OH SHIT, THIS COULD BE A TOTALLY BORING BLOG ABOUT HOW I’M GETTING MARRIED IN OCTOBER. It could be like one of those bride blogs where I tell you about how the sand in that centerpiece was imported from Revere Beach. Smokin’ butts. Tannin’.
I need to keep my peabrain busy, so I guess I’ll just post about whatever strikes my fancy. Here’s where I make a promise to myself (I PROMISE TO TRY, BUT IT FEELS LIKE A LIE. I still think Like A Prayer is her best album.) to post once a week. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH. That’ll happen.
Has anyone had Mrs. Fields cookies that come individually wrapped in a box. Shit, those are good.
I need a new banner. I am taking submissions.
I’m sorta/kinda watching Avatar and this is an ELABORATE-ASS movie, huh? My first time seeing it was at one of those kickass Lux theaters where you get an armchair and a cocktail waitress so I was SOUSED during it so I probably cried when the Keebler Elf Blue Tiger People Memory tree blew up but now that I’m watching it sober…jesus. What a technical marvel. Granted, I can see Jim Cameron grabbing digital artists by the hair and slamming their faces off of consoles if they don’t draw a CGI petal on a background flower correctly, but that kind of workplace abuse resulted in some RAD movie-making. Oh, and I wanna make out with the dude in the wheelchair. Not sure he can act or not, but he’s got a nice face. Can you draw me wearing this Unobtanium necklace? And only this Unobtanium necklace? Oh, yeah, still answering questions… (more…)
Sigh, next question.
QUESTION: You go to put your watch on after taking a dump and it falls in the hopper. Unfortunately, you didn’t flush yet. How much poo is too much to stop you from reaching in and grabbing your watch?
If a watch doesn’t mean that much to you, we can swap it out for a sandwich.
Also, do you think Annette Benning is pretty?
That was from long time commentator Bill Cosby. Count on Bill to shove a Pudding Pop made of a brown, oogy substance that ain’t pudding into your face.
Honestly, it depends on the watch. If it was like Tag Heuer, I’d use something to fetch it out and wash the damn thing. As you learn throughout life, shit (both literal and metaphorical) washes off. If it was like a Swatch or something gumball machine-ish…well, I’d take it out anyways. You can’t flush a watch.
I hate shit questions. This was an exercise in begrudgingly. I’m glad I don’t wear a watch. I get the time from my phone. I dropped a cell phone in a Port-A-Potty once. I don’t tell that story.
Yes, I think Annette Bening is pretty. Although I didn’t like the part in The Kids Are Alright when she told Mark Ruffalo that she needed whatever like she needed “a dick in my ass.” It seemed very tough guy crude. But I think that was what she was going for as an acting choice. Oh, and she was so dementedly awesome in Running With Scissors as the crazy bitch with the shag. She’d fish a poop watch out of a toilet. She has no fear.
QUESTION: I need Halloween costume ideas, stat! Preferably something celebrity related.
Yeah, looks like I was tardy for this one. I don’t know, do you want answers for this one for next year? Sure, why not. Here’s some celebrities.