Communicating with a shoe…

Argh!  So our counselor, who, by the way, is a friend of himself’s (ummm, can you say not a good fit?) focused our first visit on my obsessing about himself having an affair.  Admittedly, I’ve been the mayor of crazy town for the past three months – but dayum, this man is sure acting like a philanderer – (it’s very tempting to go into great detail about secrets kept and discovered, but I don’t want to verbally rape anyone here.  And, of course, I’m not being terribly objective.  Let’s just say a little blue pill was in someone’s work bag for “experimental reasons, ”  as in trying to figure the side-effect/vs. time ratio.  That could be true.  And, by the way, if anyone selling a bridge in Brooklyn let me know, because I have an extra hundred bucks lying around…)   ANYWAY, I did take to looking into all his stuff and cross examining his every move.  I’m scared of that sexual heroin, and if it’s what’s making him crazy, then there may be nothing to stop him from marrying some young thing with nails, while I live out my days as a cat lady in a single wide trailer steadily keeping the Miller Beer and Little Debbie people in business.  I suppose it’s a natural turn of events that eventually I’d be falsely accused at some point (tonight) of going through his stuff (which the counselor has informed me is probably a large part of this problem.  I get that.  Everyone needs their privacy.  If my husband wants to fuck someone else, who am I to get in the way? )  Wow.  Blogging can be fun.  Until tomorrow —