Some of the more intuitive Fart Blossoms may receive noticed that I've been having some mental strength issues lately - thirst attacks upon depending on report albums, depression over the particulars that the fine state of Georgia won't dissatisfy me buy off beer on Sunday and hypo-mania in between. So, I went to the VA.
minute, commemorate, Fart Blossoms, any time I circa I went to the VA, you have to do the arm gestures like the Village People...
I went on down to the
U...S...VA
I went on down to the
U...S...VA
Got it?
Anyhoo, they hooked me up with a boss shrink to talk about what was bothering me, and I was real excited. After spending all those years in New Orleans, and shrewd half of that diocese ended up in Atlanta after Katrina, I was hoping for the best.
Imagine my disappointment when, after waiting repayment for two or three hours, I was ushered into an house with not sole jar of scrutinize of newt, not a particular stick of incense scorching, not an individual cauldron bubbling and not united shrunken head on a stick.
Instead there were a two of chairs and a Dell PC. I sniffed in revulsion.
I still tried to hold my hopes up, belief this here was some new-fangled style of head-shrinking - some 21st century voodoo shit, and that the will-power of Marie Laveaux would go by in and say, "What choo won, chil'?" and all would be hale.
Instead, an Irish put named "Dr. McAllister" walked in (and no, pebbly Raccoon, he wasn't pissed of gin), and sat down and asked me what the problem was.
I told him I needed some head shrinkin' with some straight-faced mojo on the side. possibly a few totally chickens thrown in, to boot.
He blinked.
I waited.
He then pulled gone my design from my "primary attention non-physician" and went over my symptoms.
"I tumble to you're depressed."
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
He frowned and looked back down at my chart. "And that you've been experiencing anxiety attacks."
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It's Madonna's carp at, but that's not what I trouble the make a beeline for head up shrinkin' and mojo quest of, but that is why I need the dead chickens - you know, even-handed to hedge my bets," I responded.
He squinted at me. "What the..."
"Look, are you a head shrinker or not? I'm all for affirmative action and shit, but you're the anything else Irish voodoo doctor I've ever seen, and I don't recollect if you've got the proper trainin' to dehydrate heads and fix mojo and shit."
Dr. McAllister patently wasn't too gay, because he sat there, usin' his mouth to strain and grasp flies, while I waited patiently for a response. He finally shook his boss and started asking questions again.
"Do you quaff?" he asked.
"Do you respire?" I answered.
"Do you abuse drugs?" he asked.
"'Abuse' is a strong word..." I answered.
"Do you have trouble concentrating?" he asked.
"Ooh, look! Something glossy!" I answered.
"be dressed you at any time tried to ache yourself?" he asked.
"I soft drink my own zits, does that count? Should I get a negligible Korean woman to do that in return me?" I answered.
"Do you ever assume of hurting other people?" he asked.
"Do you till doomsday wait in the self-check line at the Kroger?" I answered.
"Do you have plague sleeping?" he asked.
"Only when I don't drink or abuse drugs," I answered.
I forthwith tired of this exchange. "Look, Doc. This ain't why I'm here. I constraint you to fix a four of folks on me - cast some spells and shit, ya' dig?"
He scratched his head.
"Why don't I well-grounded give you some pills, instead?"
I shrugged. "That'll work, too."
*****
So, I'm back and freshly medicated. I gain in value the whole world's patience, and if ya'll hear of a not outstanding voodoo priestess, let a bitch recall.
Kisses,
Maxine