I swing my body onto the couch, kicking my feet up and leaning my head back on the pillow. I eye the clock on the wall with contempt, berating myself for actually showing up. Fat jumps onto the coffee table and sits. With a flick of her paw, the rimless spectacles that were propped on top of her head move downward and perch on the end of her nose.
"It's been awhile since our last session." I'm forever astonished by her cavalier manner.
Yup.
I lift my hand to wipe away gunk that's collected in the corners of my eyes through the day. Fat nods minutely in my direction. "Want to tell me what happened there?"
Confused, I follow the line of her stare and flip my hand over as if I needed the visual reminder. The bruise, now yellowed, surrounds an itchy scab line.
I cut the corner too tightly on my way out of the kitchen and clipped my hand on the edge of the counter. It hurt like a bitch.
Fat snorts as though that is more professional reaction than just letting go of the laughter that builds inside of her.
What's so funny?
"I love dog humour."
Do I need to remind you that there's a name for cat that's synonymous with vagina? C'mon Fat, I'm paying you by the hour.
She hisses. "Excuse me. Sometimes we can't override our genetic predispositions. Let's get back to it. What have you been up to since our last appointment?"
I dunno. Life. Job #1, Job #2, writing another book and editing the first, stalking Russell Brand, trying to get caught up on sleep, yoga, back alley surgeries...I don't want to talk about my last patient, time with friends, time with Boyfriend."
Fat holds up her paw, "Slow down, I need to write something down." I watch her fumble with a golf pencil and notepad with the picture of a local real estate agent. Her clumsiness causes her to drop the pencil multiple times before she sighs and passes me both the pencil and pad. "I don't have thumbs, can you write down what you just told me?"
You really are the worst shrink ever.
I grab them from her, forget what I am supposed to write down and instead doodle a stick figure of an octopus in a cowboy hat swinging a lasso from each tentacle.
"Do you have any gripes this week?"
I look up and see Fat stirring my tea with the tip of her tail. Not cool, Doc. Not cool. I shove her off the table.
Of course I have gripes this week. One, that's the second time your tail has found its way into my tea. Two, the phrase, "take it to the next level" has really got to go. I don't get it and I don't think the people that say it get it either. What is this supposed next level? Idiots. Three, Boyfriend is telling the world I'm a booze can. Four, what is the deal with those people a few blocks away that have a Christmas tree set up inside their house already? They should know that people like me will sneak up to their windows and judge them harshly. Also, their wallpaper is too much, it should have stayed in the 1980s where it belongs. I lost count of my gripes, but my last one is the NFL.
"Let's address the relevant issues. You really need to learn how to let the little things go and remember that you can't control everything. Just because you don't understand them, doesn't automatically make them idiots." When I shake my head to reject her premise, she continues, "Don't you think that you're judged for seeking therapy from your cat." She jumps back up onto the coffee table, reclaiming her spot beside my tea. I pull out my pistol and wave it in front of her as a polite warning. She sidesteps away from my tea.
Nope. I bet everybody's jealous that they weren't smart enough to think of it first.
"Do me a favour. Write delusional disorder on that pad beside that snowflake you drew."
It's an octopus acting like a cowboy. You and your crazy made up words. I write down what my dyslexic mind hears: order more delusionalidis. Sounds like some kind of flower. I should make sure that it's not poisonous for cats, otherwise I'll have to replace a pet and a therapist.
Fat looks at the clock, "We're wasting away your entire session. Boyfriend tells people that you're a booze can. Is there any truth to that?
Not in the literal sense.
I think back to date night, the night before last. Classic American - dinner and a movie. I had a martini at dinner...two martinis...and a couple beer before we left the house, but that's more of a sweet-freaking-Friday-I've-made-it-to-another-weekend celebration. Boyfriend told the waitress that I was difficult and a booze can. I suppose it didn't help matters when I gulped down the first martini and argued with him over the kind of wings he wanted for an appetizer. I didn't want any, but I wanted him to order a flavour that I liked on the off-chance I wanted one. He did not do what I said. He ordered the opposite of what I wanted. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. The She-Hulk showed up for a visit and spat metaphorical venom at him until her food arrived and calmed her down.
"Do you feel that you possibly overreacted?"
Not in the slightest. Even the She-Hulk needs to go out on the town every once in awhile. And it's not the first time he's made people think I'm a drunk. Anytime we go to the liquor store, he always makes me out to be some bottle-swilling, stumbling, bumbling alcoholic and he's the poor sap that's trying to turn my life around.
"At which point, you She-Hulk," Fat's paws claw into nothingness as she tries to do air quotes.
I didn't really have another option. What was I supposed to do?
"In the past, I believe we have discussed taking the high road. Perhaps this is an idea we should revisit...?" She bats at a housefly that comes into her line of vision, recomposes herself and stares at me again to wait for my answer.
Nope. I told you. I am high road abstinent. For now and forever.
"I would greatly suggest you rethink that conviction. You said something about the NFL, let's discuss that."
I rolled onto my side and stared at her. I heard the quiet crack of porcelain as my face changed from neutral to disdain. The She-Hulk was doing her best to break free; simply hearing those three letters pumped my veins with hate.
The NFL.
I despise the NFL. It's an agent for hell, you know that, right? The ubiquitous games, the meaningless jargon, the endless replays, the soul-sucking mind thieves. Stop time has to be an invention of the devil. Boyfriend's been taken captive by the NFL. Mondays, Thursdays, all day on Sunday. Frankly, NFL, you're welcome to take him...just take him out of my house. Take him to a pub, to one of his boyfriends' houses, just don't flaunt your hold over him in my own living room. I might see you for what you really are, but Boyfriend, he's just not as sharp as me. And last Monday, I imagine the soulless bastards that are part of the man-stealing conspiracy had a great time with that Green Bay Packers/Seatle _______(some-kind-of-bird-mascot)s game. Do you have any idea how many times I watched a replay of the touchdown/not-a-touchdown fiasco? You don't know how many times Boyfriend said, Watch this. Unbelieveable. Fucking idiots. Watch this..." He was on that loop for three days. I can't pretend to care for longer than two minutes and eighteen seconds.
"Have you ever tried taking a genuine interest in what Boyfriend likes?"
High. Road. Abstinent. Don't try to change me.
Fat sighs, pulls off her glasses and sets them on the table. "I think that will be all for today."
Cool. I'm out of here.
"One more thing before you leave?" I look to the front door and back at Fat, and back and forth one more time. "Write She-Hulk-aholic on the notepad there."
Time for tea,
K
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