I first thought there might be something wrong with my therapist when I arrived for my 8am appointment to find a hipster mixed-race couple sitting in his waiting room. Dr. Sandy (yes, he goes by that – another sign that there’s something wrong with him) apologized, muttering something about his voicemail service being screwy. At my make-up session, he asked how I was feeling about my relationship with my girlfriend. I told him that sometimes I felt like breaking up with her. “Good, you should.” “Feel that way?” “No. Break up with her.” I’ve been in therapy since I was sixteen and I’ve never had a therapist give me explicit advice unless it was something blatantly obvious like “Don’t kill yourself.” But here Dr. Sandy was just laying his opinion on the line. It was almost like he took his cock and balls out and slapped ‘em on the table. “Here – take a look at these!” I was supposed to meet my girlfriend in Pittsburgh for a wedding she was taking part in. Dr. Sandy told me to call her and tell her I wasn’t coming. I said I thought that was kind of a dick move; that if I was going to break up with her, I’d rather do it in person and not ruin her weekend while she was out of town. He said he’d have to think that one over.

The final straw came when I showed for another early morning appointment and he wasn’t there. He returned my call and said he had a meeting at his son’s school and didn’t have my number handy. If I cancel on this asshole, I have to pay his entire rate – before insurance kicks in. But he doesn’t even need to call me and tell me not to show up. I’ve got better things to do than sit in his waiting room reading old issues of Westways (caveat – I did find a great recipe for souvlaki). Like any relationship, I got something positive from my time with Dr. Sandy. Instead of yelling at my girlfriend or family, I channel my rage into a journal like a twelve-year-old girl. And handjobs. That man was the Picasso of cock-stroking.