Take it or leave it or love it or need it.

My therapist tells me I'm down. 'More than that', she says, 'you're sad. Why are you sad?' 'I don't know.' I tell her about my troubled, mixed up teenage years. My words come out at a million miles an hour. There's clarity, I think, but how clear can one be at the speed of light. My hands flail, covering my face for most of the diatribe. 'How do you feel about all that now?' 'I feel nothing about it.' I tell her about my frustrations in my field. A field in which blazing blue eyes, good teeth, and muscular bodies rule the big and small screens. 'And do you want to be a part of that?' 'Fuck no.' 'Then what's the problem?' 'I don't know.' I tell her of my arguments with people talking loudly on mobile phones, people in cars, (I don't drive. It's pedestrian rage), onstage playing in my band when the audience don't listen. She tells me I'm sad. Again. I tell her it's my schtick. She tells me I need to breathe. I tell her I've been doing it since I was born. She tells me I'm funny. I cry. She asks me why I'm sad. I ask her to tell me one thing that is true She asks me if anyone is looking after me? I tell her Modest Mouse. She tilts her head. I explain that they are a band. She tells me to look after myself I admit to her I should eat more. She agrees, and says sleep helps to. I explain, in a flurry, I find it hard to 'turn off'. She tilts. 'My head. You know. I think too much.' 'What do you think about?' 'Everything.' 'And what about your heart?' 'What about it?' 'What does it want? 'Everything it can't have. Until it can.'