Dear God, Why Am I So Well-Adjusted???

"You want what?" The therapist folded his hands and stared at me intently.

"I want a disorder" I said. "People will listen to me if they think there's something wrong. Can you just diagnose me with something?"

"That's not really how it works."

"Look. I'm fucked up. I can prove it! Sometimes I pay to see one movie at the theater, then when it ends, I sneak into another one. Without paying!"

"See, that's not a disorder. It's just slightly immoral."

"So you're saying I have a morality disorder? My conscience is in need of treatment?"

"I'm sorry, no. You're just kind of a jerk. I can't really fix that."

"Isn't wanting to have a disorder so badly kind of a disorder in itself?"

"It could be, but once I diagnose you, you will have been fulfilled and will no longer have the disorder."

"So I'd be in recovery and I would need--"

"No, no, you'd be fully recovered. There's no recovery period for a disorder based around the desire for a disorder."

"What about social anxiety?"

"I highly doubt that. I saw you hitting on that woman in the waiting room."

I put my head down. "It's only 'cause I'm so lonely."

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"I cut myself sometimes!"

"Do you really?"

"Yeah!" I held up a bandaged finger. "Last night I was chopping carrots for a stew and--"

"Please, just stop. I have people with legitimate problems to see."

"But I'm imperfect! I'm broken!" Security guards entered the room. "I have a fear of authority figures!" They dragged me out in the hallway, pausing to remove my fingers from the door frame. "Look at me! Look how far gone I am! Stop denying me treatment!" The receptionist and all the patients in the waiting room stared incredulously. "I'm a filthy exhibitionist!" I yelled as I started to unbutton my pants. "Also!" I turned to the receptionist as the guards regained their hold: "You're a beautiful girl and I would like to get to know you better!" I was being dragged towards the hall again. "Ask Dr. Whiting, he has my number! Maybe we could get din--"

And the door slammed shut. And security threw me out the front door. And I think I bruised my tail bone. And I began to wonder what humans would be like if they still had tails. I quickly ran to the side of the building, to Dr. Whiting's open window. "Sometimes I fantasize about having a tail! Isn't that the weirdest thing?" I could see the good doctor shaking his head and pulling the window shut. I began to wonder when the receptionist was working next. I planned to check my messages once I got home. Maybe if I'm crestfallen enough, I can at least fake depression. It's so goddamn difficult being happy.