Pages from my diary of flamboyant untruths, part five:

(Psssssst! Hey you! Yeah, you! I haven’t seen you around
this blog before. What are you doing here? Who invited
you? Go away! Away with you!

Wait a second. I actually want people to read my blog!
Come back! Please, come back!

Are you back?

Splendid! Now, before you read this post, it might be to
your advantage to read parts 1, 2, 3, and 4 first. Other-
wise I fear the following might just seem stupid. Of course,
it will seem stupid anyway, but at least you’ll know what’s
going on. Thank you. And remember to check in here daily,
because no one on the web loves and appreciates you like I
do. Those other blogs you read are making fun of you be-
hind your back. You should hear some of the things they’re
saying. It’s scandalous.

Anyway. On with the post...)

The psychologist’s office was decorated in the modern
style. The walls were white, the furniture was black, and
the artwork was a bunch of abstract shapes made out of
both those colors. I was lounging in a leather recliner,
gazing at a tall, skinny bookshelf. There weren’t that
many books in it, but they were all thick and in German.
That impressed me. Only the most intelligent, sensitive, and
moral people speak German. I knew I was in good hands.

She was a small woman in her late thirties, with fine, tapered
fingers and pretty eyes hidden behind thick glasses. Her hair
was red, her skin was pale, and she spoke with a slight British
accent that I suspect was affected. To be honest, I thought
she was hot. She had that air of unquestionable authority
that kind of turns me on. If I hadn’t been so desperate for
answers, I might have been tempted to unleash my “moves”
on her.

This wasn’t that sort of office visit, however. I had left my
mojo hand at home, I had scoured every trace of John the
Conquer root from my clothing. I wasn’t there to “score”, I
wasn’t there to “get my freak on”, and I certainly wasn’t there
to “throw pinky the fireman headfirst into the burning build-
ing”. No, I was there to learn what I needed to do in order
to lead a healthier, more fulfilling life.

The only problem was that she didn’t seem to understand
my concerns. She spent a good half-hour lecturing me about
how my ten-gallon jar of goat eyeballs was obviously a sym-
bol of my deep-seated self-defeating urges and my intense
fear of female sexuality. The eyeballs, she confidently assur-
ed me, represented a sort of animal voyeurism which I found
far preferable to the more emotionally-fraught give-and-take
of actual intimacy. In this scheme, I defended my under-
developed core feeling by forcing all my partners to con-
front the distasteful aspects of my psychosexual character
before they had the chance to wound me at my vulnerable,
infantile essence.

It was fascinating stuff, frankly, but I don’t see how it applied
to my situation. Nevertheless, I decided to play it subtle and
not call her professional acumen into question. When she was
finished, I thanked her from the bottom of my heart, told her
I agreed with everything she said, and asked if there was any
way I could escape that horrible symbol of my psychic distress.

The psychologist steepled her fingers together, leaned back,
and spent a moment deep in thought. When she was finished,
she said, “You have to supplicate yourself more.”

“Supplicate myself?” I asked.

“You have to be less guarded,” she said.

“Less guarded?”

“Yes. Have you ever wondered why you always set up these
little trysts at your own apartment? Why do you never go
to their apartments? Have you ever wondered that?”

I shook my head and said, “I have a very nice apartment. I
have a fireplace and a remote control that keeps the fireplace
from getting too hot when there’s a fire in it. I just got the
magic fingers installed in my futon.”

She wasn’t buying it, though. “Don’t you think it might have
just a little bit to do with control?”

“With control?”

“Yes. Why don’t you ever go to one of these women’s apart-
ments?”

“Because their boyfriends might be home?”

“Because you need to be in control. You have classic control
issues. You’re unwilling to let your ten-gallon jar of goat eye-
balls go. You need it to attain intimacy.”

The gears were starting to turn in my head. I mumbled, “It’s
always there. My ten-gallon jar of goat eyeballs”

“Exactly! You need your fear of intimacy to attain intimacy!
But that’s no way to live! You need to be willing to lose control
in order to truly control your life!”

“And maybe, if I went to some girl’s apartment instead of hav-
ing her come to mine, it might not be there? The ten-gallon
jar of goat eyeballs?”

The psychologist leaned forward then and, since I’m trying
to be as honest as possible in this account, I must admit that
I looked down her shirt a little bit. “Think of it this way,” she
said, “Who’s going to drive your ten-gallon jar of goat eyeballs
to a stranger’s apartment?”

“Nobody,” I said, “But it isn’t like that. It just sort of shows up.”

“You’re not listening. I’m going to ask you again. Who’s going
to drive your ten-gallon jar of goat eyeballs to a stranger’s
apartment?”

I hesitated for a moment before saying, “The hoodoo lady?”

“No!” she cried, “No! Look, if you want this ten-gallon jar of
goat eyeballs to stop driving your life, you’re going to have to
stop driving your ten-gallon jar of goat eyeballs around! Can’t
you understand that?”

I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me off before
I could. “Our time is up for today. Make an appointment for
next week and we can bat this around some more, alright?”

I nodded, we said our perfunctory goodbyes and then I shuffled
out. My mind was in disarray. I had a great deal to think about.
I went back to my apartment and sat there for a long time, fidget-
ing with my mojo hand and staring at my ten-gallon jar of goat
eyeballs. Eventually it all started to make sense to me.

“I’m not going to let you drive my life anymore,” I told the jar,
“I’m not going to drive you around anymore.”

For the first time in weeks, I was feeling good. I stood up and
shook my finger in front of the thousand eyes. “You hear me?”
I asked it, “I’m not going to drive you around anymore! So
there! Stupid goat eyeballs!”

I was pumped. I was psyched. I was going to leave my baggage
behind and sally forth into the world of emotional health. With
my mojo hand and its copious quantity of John the Conquer root
tucked safely away in my marsupial pouch, I strutted boldly out
of my apartment, shouting maniacally as I did: “Oh yeah! I’m
not driving no ten-gallon jar of goat eyeballs nowhere! Not any-
more! Not this guy! Get a new chauffeur, ten-gallon jar of goat
eyeballs!”

This was a special moment for me. I was in triumph. I was
invincible.

It wasn’t until I was about a block away that I realized that
I don't even own a car.