by Thornshackle

Created on: December 05, 2009

Me and my anx-i-et-y..."Went strolling down the avenue...Sing it, everybody!"
No seriously, me and my anxiety finally checked into therapy. Real therapy, not doing it like we used to which was picking up a fifth of Jack Daniels every Friday night after work and getting all kinds of liquored up while watching the planes take off from that place at the airport where you can actually park without running the risk of getting impounded or towed, or arrested, and charged with conspiracy to commit drunken acts of terrorism. The thing which had launched us down the whiskey trail was ironically therapy. If you can call getting told by the waitress at Dennys to either order something other than coffee or make like the shepard and get the flock out, therapy. In this case we went with an agressive method which entailed facing the deep seated desires which we had for one another head on.

Frankly at first I had no idea that I even HAD any desires-deep seeded or otherwise-towards my anxiety. Moreover, I was shocked to learn of my anxiety's deep seeded desires toward me. Which entailed getting me wasted, and then leaving me high and dry atop the ferris wheel at the local amusement park alongside a carnival clown named Bernie. Now my anxiety is well aware of my fear of clowns, and well, when you've been getting plough faced alongside your own socio-mental impairment for as long as I have you like to feel that you have developed a sort of trust between the two of you; not unlike that special bond which some siblings, pet owners, and book of the month clubbers like to boast of. Yet as the witch doctor droned on in an assortment of psychobabble including but not limited to ooo-eee-ooo-ah-ah-ting-tang-wanna-wanna-bing-bang, I felt a curious blend of betrayal, and something akin to a 1980's car wash montage worm their way into the forefront of my mind-not unlike that bottle of tequila it took to get us to the office of said witchdoctor.
The latter being that my latent desires toward my anxiety for some reason involved reenacting the video the Billy Joel song Uptown Girl, but in real life, and in a sicence fictionesque space hangar instead of a stereotypical Newyork City automobile fix-it garage. Don't ask me why. Like I said, Even I had no idea of this until our new therapist filled my head with all of this gobble-dee-gook, which of course I had to gobble right up because I have to get a handle on my axiety lest she gets a handle on me.
What, did I not mention that my anxiety is a she? Oh well she is, and she prefres to be called Anx. She thinks it's ohh so goth, but I dunno. I think it sounds more like an out dated Axl Rose groupie trying like hell to make sure none of us will EVER forget about the spaghetti incident.

So here we are now. We couldn't agree to let each other fully carryout each other's unearthed intentions toward one another, so as the therapist suggested, we compromised. I've taken a job as a clown cabby for the Ferris and Sons Yellow Cab company.
As for Anx, well she's tied up in the trunk being subjected to a Billy Joel Tribute band's rendition of Guns N Roses the Spaghetti Incident, performed on a very moody electric cello.

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