Mi Neurosis, Su Neurosis.

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P.S.  We’re outta milk.

Sorry for the downtime between my last update and, well, this one.

Things have transpired. Embarrassing things. Things I’d only ever share while wrapped in a cloak of anonymity.

So I sit here in this surprisingly tastefully decorated hotel room, brooding over my shaming predicament and waiting for my buddy to leave town so I can take over his apartment for the next little while. Monday’s the day.

And oh yeah, my cat’s with me too. We’re in this mess together.

I can’t believe she threw us out of the house. I THOUGHT THAT ONLY HAPPENED ON THE TELEVISION.

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The last time I took an extended leave from blogging, we established that I really didn’t care so much for “explanations”.

They’re long.

They’re boring.

And like the time I was late for a friend’s going away party because I was talking with David Bowie at the Art Gallery of Ontario where he was inviting me to one of his art shows in Milan,^[1] nobody believes me.

I have a damn good reason for my absence, though. If you never trust me on anything, trust me on this one thing.^[2]

Now to tackle the daunting task of prioritizing and replying to e-mails and making sure that…blah. Forget it.

I’m going to see if I can get a static charge and shock my girlfriend. This will prove difficult since we have no carpeting.

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[1] David Bowie really DID invite me to one of his shows in Milan! If I can’t get a bunch of internet folk to believe me, I should just stop telling people this story.

[2] And believe me on the David Bowie thing, too. PLEASE. I SWEAR it happened. Jesus H. What’s so hard to believe?

Me: …with extra sauce, sausage, onions and black olives, please.

Domino’s: Ooh, excellent choice, Sir.

It’s Domino’s, not the Rainbow Room.

Wait. Could he have been patronizing me? Because I asked what brands of bottled water they carry?

I’m cancelling. I won’t be able to enjoy the pizza now, anyway.

Well, what can I say about my appointment today with the new therapist?

Her office faces northwest so my fear of her watching me walk home has been allayed. That was good.

But things quickly turned sour once I heard Van Halen being played in the waiting room. I like David Lee Roth as much as the next guy with Cluster A,B and C personality disorders and “Yankee Rose” is a catchy song…but in a therapist’s waiting room? Really??

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After the disaster that was my relationship with my previous therapist, I’m finally ready to let the healing begin.

I’ve got myself an appointment with a brand spanking new therapist tomorrow (Thursday) afternoon and I can only hope she’s a winner. Nothing sucks more than having to hold therapist auditions for two months…

…but I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.

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I knew there’d be trouble once she figured out how to use the espresso machine…but I always thought that the trouble would manifest itself in a clogged steam wand or soiled drip tray.

Not our sugar spoon.

I don’t like treating her like a child, but if I told her once, I told her a thousand times: there is a right way and a wrong way to prepare your coffee. Getting her to listen to me is harder than getting Chad Kilger to report to the Panthers.

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I lived it.

Yeah, so I was away for a while. Don’t look at me like that. You’re not the boss of me.

I was out of town and busy.

I hate having to explain myself after an extended absence. Please accept this story from my childhood as an apology.

(Sitting at my desk, facing my fellow 4th grader, Eddie)

Me: I was at the Leaf game last night! I was right up against the glass. Did’ja see me?

Eddie: Were you wearing a hat?

Me: No.

Eddie: Yeah, I saw you.

Really, Eddie? WHAT KIND OF CRITERIA IS THAT? “Were you wearing a hat?” RIDICULOUS. THAT’S HOW YOU DISTINGUISHED ME FROM THE OTHER 20,000 PEOPLE IN THE CROWD? EVERYBODY WAS WEARING A HAT BUT ME? IS THAT WHAT YOU MEANT? You’re an idiot, Eddie. No wonder you turned to drugs in the 9th grade.

I know I’ve expressed some concern in the past over my girlfriend’s attempts to encroach upon my sovereignty—specifically, her ongoing campaign to seize control of my wardrobe.

She’s been relatively unsuccessful to date, managing only to get me wearing a white t-shirt she bought me, while all her other purchases for me remain in a small pile in the corner of the bedroom. Ironically, the white t-shirt was supposed to be part of a larger ensemble—the remaining parts of which are nestled somewhere in that pile of clothes in the corner.

This isn’t supposed to be about the pile of clothes in the corner of my bedroom, but since I mentioned it, I feel that I have to defend myself.

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