I Want My Fucking Money Back!

The title of this blog is what I feel like screaming at the psychologist to which I used to drone on and on. Actually, I think I would rather lean over her in a menacing, intimidation stance and hiss it at her through clenched teeth.

Why the hostility Daniella? Why the anger? Why the throwing of people skills to the wind?

Why?

Because I am still a bonafide fucking wreck, that's why.

The psychologist I am talking about was supposed to help me be human. She was supposed to help me be more flexible, less driven by worry, anger and phobia. She was supposed to help me build the tools needed to be open and ready for a well rounded life full of all different kinds of experiences.

Yeah, well I want my fucking money back.

If I had put all of her fees on a charge card, these are the highlights of the itemized list I would submit to the credit card company when disputing the charges.

• Cardholder still worries about food poisoning on a daily basis; to the lifetime banning of the McDonald's Fillet-O-Fish sandwich, and numerous other neurotically deemed high-risk foods.
  
• Continued angry Tourettes-esque outbursts while driving are experienced by cardholder, accompanied by hand signals directed towards other drivers.
• Both romantic relationships subsequent to visits have proven cardholder is still a complete idiot.
• Cardholder still firmly believes dead grandmother is alive and well in grandfather's morbidly obese, wheezy Pug.
• To date cardholder is still overly interested in/fascinated by prison documentaries, Christmas lights, and donut sniffing.

Yeah, I want my fucking money back.