Therapy...

... has turned my brain to mush, and now all I can do at the moment is drink a lovely chardonnay and listen to the "Milkshake" song, over and over and over again on my iPod (in my defense, it's the DJ Zinc version, which is somehow way cooler and makes this less creepy).

I've known for many a year that it's best to keep my personal pathologies under wraps, deeply buried, away from the prying eyes of spectators. And as a venerate naval gazer from waaaay back, I'm already well aware of my problem areas, diagnosed three generations back, with those even in the periphery sorted into tidy DSM IV classifications....
So why, o why, do I need the validation of strangers to confirm what I already know?
And what exactly will I do when all my scary parts are dangling in the open air, exposed for all to see (yick! once those beasts are unleashed from their restraints, will I ever be able to tuck them back into the tidy package they were crammed into all those years? Doubt it)?
And once my analysis really gets rocking, does this mean that I will be forced to stop smoking crack, beating the children, and sleeping with random men I meet at the local truck stop?
Soooooooooo unfair!
Or will it mean that I'll end up living in a cardboard box by the railroad tracks once my selfish attempts at self actualization fall flat???

Sounds fan-freaking-tastic, and I get to pay big ole $$$ for the fun of it all!
PMS+ analysis=one shitty day:-(

I leave you with this synopsis of my inner turmoil du jour, one of the more entertaining ones:

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!