THE SPECIALISTS
I didn’t like my life. I sought out specialists to fix me.
The body positivity teacher told me to lose some weight. I called my mother, said something mean, and hung up on her.
The couples counselor told me I needed to open up more, to be more trusting. But when I told her I was single, she asked me to leave. I still got a bill though.
The sex positivity guru said my dick was average-sized though a little crooked. She said it was beautiful nonetheless. But now I can’t get hard without thinking of a bubble sliding back and forth in a level.
The occupational therapist said she couldn’t help me with my foot. She said that was more of a physical therapy thing. But I said I hurt my foot at work. She relented, recommended rest. I rested. My foot still hurts.
The life coach on Zoom told me to stop using my phone at night to kick my internet addiction. Told me to set limits and track my usage because the hits of doopamine from social media were keeping me hooked. I said, don’t you mean dopamine? He said, no, pretty sure it’s doopamine. I insisted it was dopamine. He told me to google it.
The nutritionist suggested I put a special yeast on my popcorn. I said I don’t like popcorn. He asked me what I ate at the movies. I said I don’t go to the movies because I don’t like paying to sit around watching rich celebrities pretend to be people they’re not. He said this sounded like a you problem. I said exactly. That’s why I’m here. For me. He referred me to a shrink.
The shrink didn’t tell me anything. She wanted me to talk. But before I could come up with anything to say, our time was up.
JON DOUGHBOY
Jon Doughboy is Literature’s sentient fart. Enter the Dutch oven of his oeuvre to inhale a whiff of foul prose @doughboywrites
Image by Doughboy
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