I Am Screwed and I Don’t Really Care

I’ve got a shrink that I go to. I’ve gone through several of them, and mostly I just hate their stinking guts and don’t bother going back, but eventually dear old dad will have a conniption and find me a new one, and off I go for more baffling rationalizations. I think they all want me to break down in tears for them; they all want the revelation to surface from the black muck of my spiraling spirit so they can look in the mirror at night while brushing their whiter than white teeth and say to themselves, “Hey, I really DID something today.” It’s a great time. But this last guy, let’s call him Dr. Douchenheimer, he seems to have duped me into sticking around longer than I wanted to. Oh well. It does me no good, as my life just seems to spin out of control faster and faster. I mean, not even a week ago I had never tried drugs really, now I’m dropping acid at the dinner table. Before too long, I will have my very own rap sheet! How cute. How ADORABLE.

But Dr. Douchenheimer seems to have all the patience in the world for my bullshit hatred—which really just gets me even more pissed at him. With the others, it seemed like they would get as impatient with me as I would with them, and our mutual annoyance-fest made it easy for me to hit the tiles and move on to the next sensitive genius. I wasn’t giving them the results they wanted, and I WILL NOT take a handful of fucking pills everyday because who the fuck knows what that nasty shit does to a young man’s dick and his desire to use it, and I certainly do NOT want to let my guard down for even a second for fear of the creeping zombitis—the rotten and debilitating disease that has taken over the minds of so, so many in my illustrious peer group, causing them to decorate lockers and cheer for no good goddamned reason for sports teams that mean absolutely NOTHING to them OR in the large scheme of “things,” and the raping and pillaging of the village virgins goes on unnoticed under the clogged noses of the fucking swing choir, and the drama club is too busy practicing veneers to see what a joke we’ve all become in the eyes of the elders we’ve sworn to follow. And the marching band. Ha. That music sucks donkey dick when placed next to the celestial thrashing of Mayhem. Would the pills take even that sparse happiness from me? The world will never know.

So from the very beginning, Dr. Douchenheimer was very cool about my no psych-drug policy, which made me immediately mistrustful. He said he was good with me trying to fix myself without outside interference, and I was like…fix myself? Am I broken? And he said, “No, but you’re not completely well, either.” That made me blink, but I guess I’m a sucker for someone who seems to be telling me the truth, so I’ve stuck around. Doc Douche got me started on this stupid journal—although I am positive he never meant an e-journal, ha ha ha—and so the other evening when I was at his office I wanted to tell him that I started it, but first I had to get my very eventful week out of the way.

He was not pleased in the slightest when he heard about Camile’s dad’s windshield—he’s a guarded mother-fucker, though, so it’s hard to say what he really feels about the shit I pull—but he didn’t seem terribly torn up about the acid dinner; he just looked at me like the sly bastard he is and said, “I thought you weren’t into medications?” Touché, dick. After I went through the sordid details of my recent life, we talked about cries for help, and I was like yes professor obvious, I am crying for help. Help! Help! Get me out of my dork-infested school! Get me different parents! Stop the fools who run the show from rubbing my nose in their precious GOD all the time. That, of course, made him bring up the way I “degraded” Camile in church, and I was like, doc, I’m fading, you’re losing your patient…we’re losing this guy! Give him 500 cc’s of ANYTHING, stat! CLEAR. THUMP-THUMP. He backed off. I also like how he backs off. He holds up both hands as if to say, “whatever.” But that’s totally ok. “Whatever’s” cool. Everyone thinks answers are supposed to be so specific, but how can they be? Have you ever heard of dark matter? My friends (can I call you friend?), you can’t GET any LESS specific than THAT, but it seems to be all the rage among the answer-makers these days.

When he brought up Camile is when I told him that I took his advice about the journal. At first he lit up like a gasoline-soaked hobo. I suppressed the urge to feel proud that I made him happy, instead I went ahead and followed a more sensible course: I put my freaking guard UP, bubba. You see, everybody is looking out for numero-fucking uno, make book on it. It’s the third law. (1) Death, (2) taxes, and (3) get what you can. I know that Dr. Douchenheimer is constantly looking for ways to feel good about himself, and like anybody, he’s gonna take the path of least resistance, right? But the path of least resistance isn’t necessarily what’s best for patient #52728 (Pendel). No hard feelings world, but I’m onto you, and I’m not about to start turning my back.

Then I tell him that my little gut spilling is being done on the internet, and his face kinda sags, and he’s like, “What, a BLOG?” And I’m like, sure, that’s what the cool kids call it, I guess, and then he sits way UP in his chair and looks at me VERY seriously and he asks me, “What exactly have you been telling the world, Pendel?” And even before I can say the word “everything” I have that old, familiar sinking feeling. You know the one. It’s the feeling you get after EVERY FUCKING TIME you try to do ANYTHING worth a SQUIRT OF SHIT.

I guess what else is there to say? I’m sure all of you fucking cock sucking sons-of-bitches out there laughing at how I fall on my fucking face every goddamned day of my pitiful useless life knew it all along; laughing at the dumb kid in class with no fucking friends, watching him dig his own grave by moonlight as the hungry wolves sit baying on the next hill, licking their tireless lips, knowing that tonight they will feast on idiot-flesh. To hell with it. Let it happen. Bring all comers. I guess in the back of my mind I MUST have realized that Google applies to me, too. I guess I knew that the cops and Camile and Camile’s two-bit biker parents have all used a freaking search engine. I guess I knew. And I said as much to Doc Douche, I said you know, as stupid as I can be, I think I must have known, and he said, yes of COURSE you did, dumbshit (or maybe he didn’t say dumbshit), and he actually says to me, “I’m happy, really, Pendel, because it keeps me from having to feel torn about keeping a dirty secret about you breaking the law.”

Is this why I like Dr. Douchenheimer? Cause he’s got the balls to NOT treat me with kid gloves? Did I just say I LIKE him? I think I didn’t mean that. I think I mean this is why ACCEPT him in my life. Anyway, he said he can’t fully support OR disapprove of a “web log.” That’s what he calls it. Ha. It wasn’t his intention, but he’s willing to see how it plays out. I said what if it plays out with me rotting away in jail, and he just laughed and said I might be picking up trash on the curb for a summer and working to pay a hefty fine, but not jail.

He thinks golf is a great idea, but of course I didn’t tell him my full plan, and maybe I never will, cause in the end I don’t trust his dumb ass any more than the rest. He also said he thinks I ought to see what Hanson has to say to me on weekends. Fucking Christ, NOOOOOO. I do NOT like Dr. Douchenheimer.

When I got home later, Clare immediately got up and left the room, giving me the smartass little smirk she has been working to perfect over the last year. So this is how it happens, I thought. It felt much like a mob hit. In come my parents from the kitchen. “Sit your butt down, Pendel,” says my dad. I said, okay tough guy, your wish is my command. He glares, but says nothing. My mom actually kicked the leg of the chair I was sitting in, which I will admit, caught me off guard and shut me up for a second. “The goddamn POLICE called again, Pendel.” I had nothing to say. I knew it would happen regardless of what they found, the call from the cops, but my mom NEVER curses, and sure as fucking shit she NEVER BUT NEVER takes the Lord’s Name In Vain, so I know what they’ve got to say, and I know just how red-hot pissed it has made these two pious landlords of mine, and I know that maybe now I should let things play out, let them have their say. And hey, I kinda feel fucking stupid still after my “session” with my “doctor.”

So tomorrow I go in the morning to the station to answer more questions, except this time they suggest I bring both my parents AND A LAWYER. Wow. Who’d a thunk it? Little ole’ ME? With an ATTORNEY? AT LAW?? I guess I really have hit the big time. And can you believe my busy schedule?! Makes a guy feel important to have places to go.

My mom said I’m lucky to have a lawyer for an uncle, otherwise they don’t know how they could ever afford it, and then, besides just EMBARRASSING the family half to death, I would have RUINED them financially as well. I’m not so sure, you know? Seems to me it might be worth the money to not have my mother’s SCUMBAG brother bleat to the rest of the dejected extended family about my every failure. Oh well. I could win the fucking Nobel fucking Peace Prize in Penis Enlargement and they would all still find me as useless as a ragdoll.

BTW, on my way home from the shrink’s, I heard this incessant bell ringing. I looked around to see who the hell was having such a time of it to make that kind of racket, and saw that it was just this old guy riding a bike down the street. He had one of those old-fashioned girly bells on his handlebars, and he just kept flicking away at the fucking thing like it was nothing. I wondered who he was trying to warn out of his way, but there was no one. And then I saw the empty smile on his face, just utterly and completely stress-free, thought-free, memory-free, and I was like, ohhhhhhhhh…he’s a retard. How nice, to think of nothing and love your bell so much.

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Tagged with: Acid, Camile, Clare, Cops, Dad, Dr. Douchenheimer, Mom, Violence
Posted in The Shrink