“ I dream in animation but can barely draw a stick figure. What the fuck is that about doc? Some kind of sick cosmic joke ?”

My shrink,  the “Esteemed Dr. Reynolds PHD. MD” always wore an assortment of J Crew button ups under three differently striped tweed cartigans. In the 3 years of attendance in this office for painstakingly monotonous versions of “Who’s on first”: Therapy Edition, I had never seen this man in anything but one of these terribly dull sweaters. I sat there desperately trying to listen to this man who my parents pay 600 dollars an hour to shoot the shit with me. For some reason though I just couldn’t keep this thought from reoccurring in my mind.

Dr Reynold scribbled some goddamn notes on his goddamn yellow legal pad,  that really grinded my gears. Without looking up he said, “Hmmmmm and how do YOU feel about that Ernest? “ Thats my name Ernest Jackson. Let me just go on record saying “Fuck Ernest Hemingway! My Dad had the SUPER original  idea to name his son after that damn author because he claims he “was so extremely moved by Old Man and the Sea”. When in reality I’m cursed with this name because He and my lovely mother, true saint of a woman, love to brag to their yuppie Ivy League  friends about how well-educated and cultured they are.  I strictly go by Ernie except with Doc because he insists on being proper.

“I mean I’m too stoked on the feeling to tell you the truth. I think it speaks to my larger  flaws in life,” I answered nonchalantly.

“hmmmmm yes.” Again scribbling away on that goddamn notepad. I began thinking about Dr. Reynolds morning routine and how depressing that must be. Waking up every morning dressing in a closet full of the exact same cardigans, then going to work and listening to nut cases like me talk about their bullshit all day. All the while having no more control over his sad pathetic life than any one of the society labeled “crazies’ he treats.
“Ernest? Hello”

“Sorry Doc whats up?”

” I said…  What flaws would those be?”

“Well,  I was being partially glib but I guess im referring to my  anxious fear and insomnia dealing with the true purpose of what being on this earth is suppose to mean for you me and the rest of mankind, and whether or not this is all some kind of sick cosmic joke?”. Dr Reynolds stroked his salt and pepper beard right out of a scene in Good Will Hunting, taking a long dramatic pause.

“ Ah yes… I may have a prescription to help you with that” Ahh of course the precious medication. As if all of societies problems can be solved by over medicating the youth of America with a magic white pill that numbs us into submission. That little pill that makes us mistake the suburban surrounding and dead end cubicle job as happiness instead of the slow march till our untimely demise.

“Geee Dr. R that’d be swell”

Dr. Reynolds nods muttering something under his breath as he rips of a piece of paper from his prescription pad and hands it to me.

“ So you can’t draw Huh?”

“Not even a stick figure”

“Interesting” again with the goddamn beard stroking, I swear he thinks he’s Robin Williams.

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