Afternoon.

“I quit my job,” I confessed fidgeting nervously on the free association couch. Why did I come in here I kept wondering silently, over and over.

The therapist didn’t say anything, he just passed a box of tissues my way.

“Its okay,” I said quickly. “I have no feelings on the matter.”

He arched an eyebrow and looked first at the red book on his desk, then to me. “Why did you quit?”

“I got ticked off.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you quit everything that makes you mad?”

I looked at him for a second. “I quit cheerleading in the third grade, and thats the last thing I quit. I’m not a quitter.”

“Why did you quit your job?”

“I told you, I got ticked off.”

He picked up the red book. “I think your problem is more serious than just quitting your job.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

Everyone needs a swift kick in the tuckus.

(I did quit my job…a few weeks ago, before any of this happened…but I went back.)

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