Not at all Confidence Inspiring

So, I'm nuts. I would normally not TMI you like this, except it was just too funny not to post. But yes, I'm nuts, and recently have become a rather debilitating sort of nuts, so I finally swallowed my complete mistrust of mental health professionals and made an appointment.

Today was that appointment, with a very nice, reasonable woman who actually wanted to hear me blather about the freakish ways in which my mind and my autonomic nervous system have recently conspired to convince my body that every waking moment is an emergency. And so I blathered a bit, ignoring the bits of Foucault dancing about in my head (some lucky bastards get sugar plums), and I even managed not to blanch at the thought of medicating with anything other than a nice glass of merlot. And then it happened.

The very nice woman had to leave for a moment to handle something of gerater urgency than my blather, so I took a gander at her bookshelf. There amongst the various manuals of practice was a familiar name. Now, this is not universally a bad thing; I am about six credits off from a degree in psychology, so I know a lot of related names. But this name I knew from elsewhere. This was one of the names attached to one of the keynote lectures I mave been transcribing this term. Transcribing and making fun of. Mercilessly.

The very nice woman came back, and we wrapped up our session (which bizarrely included a discussion of Foucault; is there a social science/humanities discipline that DOESN'T claim him as their own?). She made sure I was sorted out with appointments with other Very Nice People, as she will not be my "regular" therapist. I'm telling you now: I'm not entirely sure how regular this will be. If I see a copy of John Gray on anyone's shelf, I'm done. Because I'm nuts, but not that nuts.