Duck tape. That's the cure.
I sat on his sterilized fake leather couch and pretended to open up. I faked a range of emotions and even mustered a tear or two. His eyes rarely left his ugly yellow legal pad, and he answered all my questions with questions.
He had graduated from an Ivy League school, and had framed the evidence. It hung smugly on the wall. He combed his mustache with his fingers while he explained my psychiatric state to my parents. I found this habit disgusting, and rather repulsive.
He said he could see I was deeply troubled. I doubted that, his glasses had lenses thicker than encyclopedias.
He said I was depressed, severely.
Depressed.
He wrote me a prescription, for duck tape.
Duck tape.
He must be delusional.
Duck tape can't fix depression.
Everyone knows that.
He wrote me a prescription, for duck tape.
ReplyDeletestole this.
answered all my questions with questions.
ReplyDeleteDuct tape can't fix depression. everyone knows that. stoleeennnn.
ReplyDeleteI love the title of this post, it made me laugh. & I like your perspective on your posts.
ReplyDeleteI love how this post is in a story form, but it's still poetic. I think that is one of the hardest things to do. I love all these poems people are posting, but I loved reading a story for once. Thank you. I worship your blog.
ReplyDeleteHe said he could see I was deeply troubled. I doubted that, his glasses had lenses thicker than encyclopedias.
ReplyDeleteWOW! So cool... Love this line.
Swiping this!