hour 3 of therapy: and sometimes, doc, i feel like i'm up against the dive rocket launcher without an angry pumpkin to handle any of it. how am i supposed to be the architect and/or builder of my future when-
therapist, through gritted teeth: and once again, that's the end of your time. please put that 20 dollar bill away. i already told you you can't extend the meter. it doesn't work like parking.
me: i PROMISE i'm almost at the part where i intend to harm myself or others
the visibly erect therapist, one hand on The Button and the other mysteriously absent: f-f-fine. okay. fifteen,, fifteen more m-minutes. but if you keep fucking edging me like this i'm gonna mark your gender dysphoria as Cured


























