I’m in the Hanoi Starbucks, where I’m supposed to be Googling expat therapy services. One of my girlfriend’s conditions for taking me back. She’s right, I do need therapy. I’m a tall handsome funny man who gets invited to shit all the time, yet I’m still convinced that everyone despises me and wants me to die. Failed writer, so of course I need therapy. The wholesale rejection of your best output is impossible to internalize. Why did I ever try to do this, I keep asking myself. Why does it feel like I’m cursed to have to keep trying. I need an intervention to make me stop blogging.

Being a failed artist is like getting dumped every day. Who can blame Hitler for blowing a gasket after the art school thing.

I do need therapy, which means spending money to pay someone to listen to me. I’m furious that that has to be the case. I am the most hilarious and interesting man who ever lived; I should not have to pay for someone’s attention. Fuck it – I don’t need therapy. My problems are complex Gordian knots yet they have a simple solution: everyone in the world just needs to read all my shit, and never stop, and then I’ll be happy until I die. None of this posthumous fame shit, I want it right goddamn now. Any therapy session will be me just restating those last two sentences over and over for an hour. Every thought or insight you’ve ever had, I’ve stated it in clean, perfect simplicity. The right words in the right places. But it’s not enough to be perfect. Too much crap out there, impossible to rise above it all. You need luck too. And I already received my entire cosmic allotment of luck at birth, when I was born to white American parents. Already got my boost. I’ll spend the next 50 years trying to process that.

Anyway: if you don’t read me, drive off a bridge.


8 thoughts on “Fragile

      1. Yeah, I feel the same lately. I mean – no! I have a surplus at the moment, actually, so if a spare hand job pops up I will send it your way.

  1. Send me the money instead of the shrink. I listen to you by reading your blog. I even read your book. You just need about 453,000 more me’s and you’re golden. All a shrink will do is ask you how you feel about what you just told them then give you drugs to numb your brain waves. You’ll then be as creative as a bowl of cold oatmeal. The untreated Fred is more fun. Even the shrink probably doesn’t really give a flying flip how you feel anyway. Treat the girl with a little more care and throw in some actual tenderness and stop thinking you are not worthy of her respect and earn it. So screw the shrink and hit me up on paypal.

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