Therapist

I meant to tell my therapist yesterday that I would not be seeing her anymore.  She usually just sits and listens to me.  She doesn't offer any help for my problems, and she can't remember my family members' names or many specific details from appointment to appointment.  Sure, we only meet once a month, but doesn't she have a cheat sheet she could go over or something?

Anyway, I meant to break up with her yesterday.  But she finally said the magic therapist catch phrase: "Talk to me about that", and leaned a little forward in her chair.  I must have said something that interested her, but now I can't even remember what it was.  And it occured to me that maybe I think I'm being open with my problems, but I'm really not.  Maybe I need to tell her more.  We haven't even touched upon my bisexual tendencies, or the suspicion that I have an eating disorder.

Sometimes it's just nice to feel like your problems interest someone other than yourself. 

The bane of my existence

I think I would be a skinny person if I didn't eat cheese.  Please.  SOMEBODY STOP ME.
There is a fabulous store in my town that carries a vast amount of cheese.  It has its own room devoted to cheese, for heaven's sake.  And the room is very cold.  Still, I find it sort of a game to go in and grab a hunk of cheese, any old hunk, for the sake of knowledge, and experimentation, before I freeze my proverbial nuts off.  I'm merely expanding my grasp of the cheese world, I tell myself.  Alas, my ass is also expanding.