shrinking the shrink

[i’m here to help you]

[you’re here to help me.  if that’s so, how did all these things get to be here?  are they here to help me too?  or are they here to help you?  i think if you were here to help me there would be a lot less less useless junk lying around]

[why do you say it’s useless junk?]

[ha, oh no, you’re here to help me, remember?  that sounds like a question to help you understand you, not me understand me.  isn’t that the basis for all psychiatry?  helping people cope with the ‘i’?  the ‘me’?  the ‘one’?  the social ignorance of the fact that we replace all our cells every three months but nobody changes their name that often because it’s a fucking CRIME to change it that often?  that’s what you’re here to help me understand.  why i should be persuaded to think of myself in terms convenient for a database…why i should think of ‘myself’ at all…]


[you psychiatrists are always building a linguistic fence around your patients in the movies.  it’s always either a prescriptive or a deferential feign at establishing rules; psychological contracts; something you can jot down on a checklist and say ‘progress made today’.  well, i’m still speaking grammatically correct if not coherent sentences, eh?  did you notice that?  and by the way, they are coherent sentences, you’re just not filling in the conceptual leaps because you’re not coherent.  you haven’t actually thought things out, other than how to pad your financial profiles out to the point to where if the bad, bad, primal man comes knocking, you’ll have some baubles to negotiate with.  and that’s your life.  you negotiate with conceptual baubles by day to sleep dreaming of more conceptual baubles by night, happy and safe and content in the knowledge that most of the rest of the world has been stupefied and entranced by the same baubles you mutually value, giving you a buffer against homelessness and disease and injury and hunger.  you tell fairy stories in exchange for fairy bread.  you’re living the living fairy tale.  and this room is the shrine to that lifestyle – you use all the fucking junk in this room to convince yourself and me and everybody else that it’s real…that it’s all real, even though you know that all you really are is a lying junk collector, an unhappy miser counting coins, waiting to die with the happiest of anesthetics as a substitute for the heaven you know you already consumed.]