Privacy Policy

I’m getting my taxes done last week and I itemized everything on an excel spreadsheet. I have a ton of medical, since I pay my own insurance, etc. I itemized out ‘therapy’. I don’t even know if it’s a write-off, or if he ended up writing it off. I remember thinking, “Should I keep this on there? Oh, who cares. Everyone is in therapy. It’s not a big deal.”

And he reads my items and laughs out loud, “Ha! Therapy! What are you in therapy for? You’re young!”

Okay. So much to address. Um, is it an age thing? Because if you’re telling me that I’m too young to be in therapy, are you saying it does not get better as I get older? To ask me why I’m in therapy is rude! First of all, it’s admitting that you’re horribly out-of-touch, but then again, so is having standard puke-green file folders in your office. They make rainbow colored ones now!

Anyway, I sat there. What if I were molested? What if I was a drug addict? A trauma-survivor? A rape victim? Everyone in my family had been killed by Charles Manson? Surely, I’d need therapy! And then I sat there, while the accountant was already on to adding up my Entertainment deductions. I sat there, “Why am I in therapy? Because none of the aforementioned shit has happened!” I went through my reasons in my head and just kept saying, “Yeah. That’s a good one. But what if I just stopped doing that?” I sat there. Is my tax accountant, some god-damned Buddha or something? Why do you go to therapy? How simple. Stopped me dead in my tracks. Maybe I don’t need it. Maybe, it’s all about, “just chill out.” Did this man just accidentally provide me with a breakthrough? Or an excuse?

Either way, it was an invasion of privacy. Just write it off or shut up.

The other weird comment was that I was getting my Dork Days flyer made at Kinko’s. The dude behind the counter, an older man, with a gray ponytail, said, “Well, I certainly dont appreciate the work “dork” being associated with Groucho Marx!” Oh. I’m sorry. I thought I turned off the ‘audio commentary with my Kinko’s experience.’ I said, “It’s about me.” He looked at me and looked back at his computer. He says, “Groucho is a brilliant man.” I say, “The show is about me. I’m not being mean to Groucho. His picture is an homage to something in the show.” He says, “Is that what they’re calling it these days? An homage? Sounds like plagiarism. Oh, sure. I’ll just act out a movie by Steven Spielberg on stage. It’s an homage.” So now I’m a plagiarist, who doesnt understand Groucho. I say to him, “That’s not what I said.” Then I said to myself, “Stop talking to idiots.”

How about just not commenting on what I’m showing you? I used to work at a video store and even if you came in and rented, Sluts with Broccoli and Donkeys, I remained stone faced. It’s not my business and frankly, it was brave of you to come to the counter and expose your personal life to me and not just shoplift the thing. Bravo. And for that, you have earned my silent cashiering.

Lastly, I was purchasing something at Rite Aid, it is not necessary to know what, and the cashier asked, “Do you want some lube with that?” No. I do not want any lube today. But, thank you for asking.

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