I had a pretty awful therapy session on Tuesday. She was just particularly hard on me about some stuff she thinks I've been "glossing over." There's something very strange about one grown person paying another grown person to get in their face when they aren't being honest with themselves. I was sitting in that room, all huddled over my cup of coffee, which felt like the only normal object in the room for a few minutes, wondering why this all suddenly reminded me of being reprimanded for not having my napkin on my lap when I was in the 5th grade. I'm sure she, the therapist, would certainly scoff at my making this analogy, since the very point she was trying to make involves me equating something serious that's happened with things that aren't serious. And perhaps she has a point.

But her point is not MY point. My point is, why do I pay someone a million dollars a second to make me feel like my mom flew in from the Chicagoland area, rewinded me to age 8, and sat me down in the living room to raise her cruel eyebrow and wave around the note I wrote about kissing Brian Robinson, the note I folded up into a precious little triangle so only my best girlfriends would know how to open it, the note she found in my pants pockets when she was doing the laundry and somehow cracked my fail-safe note-opening scheme?

My 26th birthday is in 5 days.