Cop that just pulled up: Okay, what's the probl-goddamnit! You, AGAIN?!
Therapist, still topless: What seems to be the problem, officer?
Me, drinking from a can of paint thinner: I would like to report a missing person. I can't find me.

Me: Stop, you're gonna get us in trouble.
Therapist, breasts pushed against the glass divider, making intense eye contact with me: What's wrong, don't you like it?
7 Eleven attendee: ...I'm calling the cops.

I'd just like to state that these stories are entirely fictional and my therapist isn't real, so there's no way we could have robbed a Wells Fargo at the corner of I-45 and FM 2920.
Therapist, whispering in my ear: Good, now tell them how much therapy is helping you remain grounded in reality.

Me, sipping a screwdriver from a Tropicana bottle in the passenger seat of my therapist's car: Why did we leave the rehab facility?
Therapist, wrapping my fingers around a handgun: I just need you to make a withdrawal.
Me, pulling on balaclava and chambering a round: Ugh, I hate going to the bank.

Me, sitting in group therapy at court ordered rehab: I don't think I've hit rock bottom yet.
Therapist in a fake moustache: That's good, have some water. *wink*
Me, sipping straight everclear: Yeah, I can definitely keep digging.
Therapist, sipping from her mug: Very astute.

Prosector, rubbing forehead: So, he's incapable of basic functioning without a BAC how high?
Therapist, slurring: It's difficult to measure cuz he won't shut up long enough to blow.
Me, pouring vodka into a water bottle under my counsel's table: That's only mostly true.
Judge: Rehab and probation.

Me, wearing a sleeveless Dillinger Four shirt and nothing else, swinging a 3/4in breaker bar at a cop outside the liquor store: You wanna oink at me again, mother fucker?
Therapist, laughing maniacally from the passenger seat of her own car: Taze him, you coward!
Cop: *tazes me*

The group of college freshmen I bought beer for, mouths agape: How did he float the keg on his own?
Me: Here's the thing, I actu- *15 second burp*
A young man cries, seeing his own future laid out before him. My therapist shakes in a corner, visibly distraught. Her hands lift a flask to her mouth.

Me, bouncing a quarter into a shot glass: How come y'all aren't playing? This party's kinda lame.
My therapist, sitting in a circle with all my friends and family: ...I know you know this isn't a party!
Me: ...*takes shot*
Therapist: ...*sips from rum mug*

Therapist: So, what do you think is something you need to work on this year?
Me: I feel like I should probably strengthen my greatest weakness.
He: Okay, good. What's that?
Me: Sarcasm.
Her: All right, using it less or more?
Me: That's right.
Her: *picks up her coffee mug that reeks of rum*

Therapist: You do realize this behavior is akin to screaming into the void as an act of escapism?
Me, wearing a beer hat and a dinosaur onesie with hot sauce on it: I feel like you're lashing out because you're envious of my lack on inhibition.
Her: ...
Me: *excessively loud burp*

Therapist: I really don't feel like that's going to help.
Me, taking a pull from a $12 handle of bourbon: We can't know that until I try, now can we?

Me, stumbling naked from the woods onto the county fair grounds: What year is it?!?!
Therapist, chasing me: Nononono!

Commercial: Side effects may include being a worthless waste of oxygen, you piece of human shit!
Me: Uh huh, got that. What else?
Therapist, becoming visibly stressed: No.

Prosecutor: Objection, your honor! This is absurd!
Therapist, in the witness stand: I can assure you, this behavior is both normal for him, and relevant to his defense.
Judge, enthralled: Overruled...
Me, doing the worm on my counsel's table: Thank you, your honor.

Soon to be ex-wife: It's like he doesn't understand that after a certain age, being stupid isn't charming.
Me, wearing a Burger King birthday crown and nothing else: And what, I'm past that age?
Therapist: I don't normally take sides, but you are past that age.

Me: So I put the Zoloft into the whiskey, and shoot it right as it dissolves. I call it a Zoloftail.
My therapist, whispering as she furiously scribbles notes: I'm going to get so fucking published from this maniac...