Posted: September 4, 2012 in couch, doctor, mr john, Non-Fiction

All comfy on the couch of many skins and what do I hear? Do you hear what I hear? The loonie the loonie.

Mows she has brought a tv of some sort into the office. It sounds like a five inch black and white sporting a radio tuner along the side. May e it’s just a radio playing soap operas.

SHUT UP! Now she’s on the phone.

The worst part about me having sessions on this couch is that I can hear everything. I mean if I were an actual loon like the lady on the phone next to the radiator, I would not want to spill my beans here. Although I am actually spilling my beans, it is not aloud for all to hear.

I imagine this outset office complex was built somewhere in the nineties with leftover materials from the eighties. Three unit buildings littering a somewhat secluded area off of Glenburnie Road. The building that I spin my tales in is directly blocked of view from the main raid by a big old restaurant that shared many a different hay day. Used to be a (insert name here). Remember the food at the (insert favorite name here). Now, as is the case of every failed attempt at culinary wizardy, it is a Mega China. Buffett.
Buffets and I don’t really get along. That could be another session on the couch.

The unit in the building I am in is fairly hollow. Hollow core doors. Why? There are two office doors directly facing my couch. When there are loonies in these offices, I can here every word. I know all of there problems. I am thankful that this is a rare occasion as of late that a patient is in one of these offices. The office that my son and Mr John are in is down the short hallway. The only time I hear them is when my son is screaming. Doesn’t he realize that I am trying to get some work accomplished here! Crazy kid.
Not explaining here makes me all giggly inside.

The office for the receptionist slash wife slash loonie hovers right above the couch. It was once just a space and someone threw up some half walls and a door. The walls do not go all the way to the ceiling and only real direct sound barrier between her and I is a venetian blind. It’s a beige blind.
All during every word typed here she is yapping about anything the crazy on the other side of the phone wants to talk about.

This one guy, I haven’t seen him for awhile, was having relationship problems. I could never quite make out if it was with his girlfriend or his sister. It sounded equally strange in either case. How is a wonderful question.
The lady psychiatrist never really gave the misguided bastard any advice. He always had to work it out for himself. I never fully understand people who really don’t have a clue. Sadly there are many of them.

Some people would say that I am one of them. Well I M getting therapy on my sofa, bub!


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