Sessions: 1

Wednesday at six.  Every Wednesday night at six o'clock I am here for two hours to listen to her tell me what I've done wrong and why I've done wrong and who I've done wrong.  But of course, the ultimate person I've done wrong is myself because according to her, if you can't make yourself happy than can you really make those around you happy?  If this is true then everyone must be fuckin' miserable because I've been around a lot of people and I'm still coming here very week to sit on this sticky leather couch, telling some certified stranger all about my sticky little life.

"What do you think you can do to better yourself?" she asks me, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, a look of I-work-on-emotional-commission concern spreading throughout her face.

What can I do to better myself?  I could take the three hundred dollars an hour I'm paying you and go buy some shoes and a handle of vodka.

She starts going off on some lucid rant about the steps I can take toward a more enjoyable future.  One filled with independence and commitment and lollipops and rainbows.  I try to listen but I just can't get this damn song out of my head.  What makes it even worse is that I can't for the life of me think of the title.

'Saturday, in the park, I think it was the Fourth of July...'

"-So you see, if you can just write down one thing you want to accomplish every day, and then steadily work toward that goal, I think you'll find your days much more fulfilling, I really do."

She seems to be done talking, or at least is offering a delayed pause which implies it's my turn to speak.

I focus my gaze on her and frown.

"Who sings that Fourth of July in the park song; Boston or Chicago?"

"Excuse me?"

"I always get the two of them confused.  You know, 'Saturday, in the park..."

"Sunny-"

"...I think it was the Fourth of July..."

She gently places her clipboard on the end table next to her cushy velvet armchair and leans back, crossing her legs.

"Sunny, I'm really concerned about your progress.  You don't even seem to pay attention to our sessions.  Why do you even bother to come?"

I lean back as well, crossing my legs just like hers.

"Now there's a question to analyze."