Just Maybe...

And now to begin today’s story….

Like there really is one. There are some things you just don’t go around and say. You just go on. You pretend. It’s the easiest thing to do.
Maybe I’m just lucky. Maybe I’m just anti social. Maybe I spend all my time talking to myself. Maybe that’s because I need therapy. A mental institution’s prime candidate. I think I write too much stuff about being psycho. I think maybe I should tone it down, either that, or I should show it to a shrink and let him decide what to do with it.

“Are you going to a therapist?” he’d ask.

“ A therapist?” I’d repeat. “What for?”

“Well, you could really use one.”

A slight pause. I would shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“I haven’t been told that before,” I would lie. Terribly lie. The doctor would see it.

“Are you lying?” he would ask. I would shake my head vigorously. “I’m just curious…will you tell me why you write so much about people that could use the help of a therapist? Is it because maybe you need one?” He would urge gently. I would shrug.

“It’s just a story. There’s no meaning to it,” I would answer, half mumbling.

“Have you ever heard that sometimes we write subconsciously about things that could hold true with us, but we just don’t know it?”

“No, I don’t write like that. I write what sounds like a good hearty soap opera. Something that would sell,” I would dismiss.

“But don’t you think that maybe they’re too realistic? That maybe they follow a pattern?”

Suddenly rage would flash through me. This person wanted to know my inner most thoughts. My personal place, my world. He wanted to try and befriend me so he could try and hurt me, expose me. I couldn’t let that happen.

“I don’t see Stephen King going to a shrink. Do you think he needs a shrink? Do you think maybe all his life he’s had something wrong with him, but he never realized it, and that maybe his parents couldn’t afford therapy, so they decided that his writing of goring people to death and how things raise from the grave and kill people, that that was the safest way to let out his aggressions? You tell me. Would you rather be reading ‘The Shining’, or living it with some psychopath chasing you around with an axe in a hotel in the middle of nowhere screaming ‘Heeeere’s Johnny!’” I toss out to him. I could sense his anger about now.

“There’s a big difference. Yours follows a pattern. A young girl all alone in the world, everything going against her, her father is either nowhere to be found or dead, and her mother is like some kind of evil witch that never understands her. Don’t you sense a pattern?”

“It makes for a really fun recipe,” I would tell him sarcastically.

“Tell me…” he would begin after a after a slightly enraged pause. “What’s your family like?”
Suddenly he was asking too many questions. Wanting to dig through my past, that was just too much.

“My family has nothing to do with this,” I would retort coldly.

“It could be the key to everything. This could be the reason for your writing, how you feel…” he continues on. I would begin to block him out. Suddenly, thoughts of “What would Lizzy Borden do?” would run through my mind. I would imagine him walking around, talking, exploring feelings, uncovering sub-conscious thoughts with an axe in the back of his head, blood running down the back of his suit. I couldn’t be able to help but laugh.
But that would only be if I showed it to a psychologist.

Now do you believe that I need help?

But maybe I’m the only one that thinks I need help.

Maybe I don’t need psychological help at all. Maybe I just think like a normal person, and everyone who thinks that I could use the assistance of a therapist is really mentally delusional. Do you know what people think? I would pay a million dollars to guarantee you don’t. If I had a million dollars. But that’s not the point.

How do you know what other people think? You’re not psychic. If you were, you would’ve won the lottery by now, right? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Maybe Fred, your mailman, really dreams of being a prima ballerina. Maybe the dogs have thoughts of being mayor of the city. Maybe that squirrel you feed at the park, the one that’s always seeming to be the cute one, the one who you give all the breadcrumbs to, he’s really rabid in his mind, and he wishes with all his little furry being that he could gnaw your hand off every time you stick it out to give him those breadcrumbs. Despite the fact you’re feeding him breadcrumbs. But maybe that’s just a sick thought. It could be that he’s a normal, average squirrel.

Maybe cereal that talks to you isn’t something so psycho after all. Have you ever stopped to hear what your corn flakes may be saying? Corn Pops never lie, or so I’ve heard. Rice Krispies just say “Snap, crackle, pop kill…” over and over again. They not too sure on what they want, other than murder. Maybe Raisin Bran has a better dialogue going for it. Maybe you would be able to hold more meaningful conversation with it. After all, Raisin Bran seems a lot more intelligent than Rice Krispies do. Wouldn’t you agree?

So now that you know definitely something but absolutely nothing about me, whaddya say you give me a ride somewhere? I could really use one. Maybe to a publicist?