Four Blondes

“ALL I DO ALL DAY IS GO TO DOCTORS,” I started to shout, but then I saw that closed-up expression on his face again, so I switched into my sexy voice and said, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“But I am worried about you,” he said.

“Then why don’t you stay home and keep me company?” I asked.

Well, fuck him. That was obviously the wrong thing to say as well because he just shook his head, patted me on the leg, and went away.

I HATE HIM. What does he want me to do? Who does he want me to be? Who am I supposed to be, here, please? Will somebody PLEASE tell me?

Went to see Dr. Q. at one-thirty. He kept me waiting for three minutes and forty-two seconds, which is almost four minutes and completely unacceptable. Two and a half minutes is the cutoff for ANYONE. I always tell everyone I won’t be kept waiting for more than two and a half minutes unless I’m the one who’s keeping them waiting. That’s one of the reasons why I refused to be on the cover of that stupid Vogue magazine, because that idiotic woman said, I’ll have someone call you right back and I said, What do you mean by right back and she said, In five minutes and she called back in eighteen and I said, Sorry, I’m not interested. Plus, I have my other reasons, which are that I hate that woman (I hate her so much I won’t even say her name), but more about that later.

So, this is typical, the person who was before me eating into my appointment time with Dr. Q. is some forty-year-old woman wearing sweatpants. They’re not even Calvin Klein. And she’s holding a tissue.

Why do women always cry in shrinks’ offices?

“Well,” Dr. Q. says. I think he notices I’m being extremely cold and standoffish. “How are you today? Do you still think that someone in the family is secretly poisoning you?”

“What on earth makes you say that?”

“That,” he says, flipping through his notebook, “is what you said yesterday.”

“I did throw up this morning.”

“I see.”

Then I don’t say anything. I just sit in the chair, drumming my fingernails on the metal arm.

“I see,” Dr. Q. says again.

“And what exactly is it that you see, Dr. Q.?”

“I see that you’re wearing a head scarf again.”

“Your point?”

“You’ve been wearing a head scarf and black sunglasses for the last two weeks.”

I give him a withering smile.

“So . . . How does it make you feel when you wear a head scarf and dark sunglasses?”

“How do you think it makes me feel, Dr. Q.?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“NO,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“That would, ah, defeat the purpose of our . . . visits.”

Ugh. Dr. Q. is so THICK.

“It makes me feel safe,” I say.

“From the family poisoner?”

Sometimes I want to kill Dr. Q. I really do.

D.W. called. I haven’t talked to him for three months. I’ve been avoiding him.