guy walks into his therapist’s office.  he missed his last appointment, forgot it completely.  he sat at home watching a movie, didn’t even hear his phone ring when she called to find out where the hell he was.  she left a message: “i’m just calling to make sure you’re alright.  it’s not like you to miss an appointment.”  now it’s two weeks later and he’s on time, ready to put in work.  his therapist graciously didn’t charge him for the missed appointment.  he sits down.

so, how have things been?

he don’t know what to say.

i’ve been dying to hear how your presentation went!

   his mouth opens slightly, but he stays silent. he looks at a pile of board games on her shelf.

last time you were just about to leave for the conference.  how did it go?

does she play those games with patients?

god you look fat.

yeah, fat with worry.

***

teaching is hard.

i stand up there, and i pretend i have a clue.  like i know something they don’t, like they should listen to me.  like what i’m saying is important.  like i’m important.

i don’t feel like they’re buying it.  and why should they?  none of it makes sense to them.  it sounds arbitrary, capricious.  like i’m making it up as i go along.  my 8:30am class suspects something is amiss.   i put myself in their shoes.  this is fucking shit.  i hate myself.

the thing is, though, this stuff does make sense.  it’s not arbitrary, it’s really useful and important skills i’m trying give to them.  and i do know about it.  i’m trying my best to help, i think.  still, i look at it from their point of view, and it’s such fucking shit.  i hate myself.

i show up, every day, ready to die.

***

you’re your own worst critic, you know.

hm.

well, if you don’t know, now you know.

, nigga.

i’m sure most of your class thinks you’re great.  it’s extremely unlikely that they all hate you, don’t you think?

…

so, two weeks from today?

everything’s likely.