Friday, January 16, 2015

Lacanian Self-Analysis

I sat in the office of Dr Lacan. Time ticked: our session was about to end. Finally, I felt the need to say something. In a baby's voice.

"Mommy didn't wike it when I wettums the bed--"

Dr Lacan held up his hand.

"Not interested," he said. "Nor do I want to hear that jive again about Disneyland."

I made a whining noise. Dr Lacan looked at his watch.


"I'm trying to help people. But what's most important is that I'm seen as a good guy."


"Like, for instance, my transgender student asked me to help him get a service dog. I had to answer questions on the phone about Pat's suitability for this border collie he wants. The interview with this lady went on for, like, fifteen minutes. Don't people know what a busy guy I am? Besides, I really don't know anything about dogs. Or if Pat would be a good owner. And I never mentioned to the lady that he sleeps with cans of food or about his trisectional vagina."

Dr Lacan was very busy writing. "Mm. Go on."

"And then at work Jorel asked me to help her with her stove. She--"

"Who is Jorel?"

"She's the spacey space cadet from outer space I work with. The other day she had a burrito in the break room microwave. But as it heated, she fell asleep in the comfy chair. When she woke again, the burrito had cooled. So she had to warm it up again--only to fall asleep again in the process of warming, which led to it being cool and so it needing warming and she slept and cooled to warm and cooled her warming sleep. Burrito."

"But the stove?"

"Yes, a customer at the library gave her a stove. I have no idea why. Or how. Or wherefore. Anyway, she decided to have some guy hook it up, but he told her the gas pipes were galvanized and needed to be up to code which would cost her nine-hundred dollars, so she said screw that. So she's going to Home Depot and get some pipes and do it herself."

"I thought you were helping her...?"

"Yes, I helped her by giving her advice. Like: don't. And: you will die. But we'll see if she listened. The giant mushroom cloud over Englewood will be a clear indicator."

"Okay, that's all for today..."

"But wait, I haven't gotten to the reason for needing therapy in the first place!"


"I just received the latest prose styling from my dad." I took out a folded, stained sheet of paper. "This is from his short story about money. And mattresses....

'Off to rodeo in his apartment they went. He sank into that crazy-ass mare, she bucked, he thrust, she bucked.... he rode her hard till wet. Mariah rose, dressed and left in a breeze looking for more. Only too much was enough for her.'

I mean, my dad wrote this, and he wanted me to read it. Is there any hope for me, doctor? Doctor....?"

But he had already run screaming from the room. Like a crazy-ass mare.

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