The views and opinions expressed in this article are those only of the author and may only coincidentally reflect those of Mystic Metals, its employees, or associates. All responses should be posted as comments here, or mailed directly to the author, A. Robert Basile, at email@example.com. Mail sent directly to Mystic Metals will not be read.
A Guy Who Says Yeah, A Secret Woo Girl, And A Mom Like Person
I’m going to preface this little story with this: Mom, don’t read this, please. My mother reads all my blogs, and I like her to. I like her to see that I actually do something other than droll in an antidepressant coma on the couch while Neil Cavuto on Fox News Channel is yelling at me in his odd puns (today, he said “...the sheep hit the fan.”). But this little story is going to contain things about me that, if I were my mom, I’d rather not read. So there’s your warning, mom. I love you. Here’s some story time, kids. Sit back and enjoy. Or don’t. This shit is free, so you get what you pay for.
I have two people in my life who help me govern my brain. One is my therapist. I love my therapist. She is a remarkable woman with terrible shoes and an infectious laugh. She’s also helped me a great deal in learning about myself. I’ve been seeing her for quite a while, now, and though I’d never tell anyone to go to therapy or that he needs therapy, I personally have garnered quite a bit from it. I’m a better person for it. It’s a good kind of hard.
The other person in my life who helps to keep my brain in the realm of socially acceptable and nonviolent toward myself and others is my shrink. That person keeps changing. It’s no fault of my own, or so I shall believe, but real life happens to people who participate in real life (not it), and these people move on to bigger and better things. Bigger and better than listening to me bitch and complain, anyway. So I am on my fifth shrink. Or maybe fourth. Maybe fifth. I lost count. At any rate, these people pass my phone book sized file between them and try to maintain my care. They’re drug dealers with better shoes, I suppose. I was to meet with a new one this week, and this is how it went down.
I prefer women mental health people. I don’t know why that is. I prefer talking to a woman. I’m more comfortable with them. I listen more to them. I respect them. This new shrink is a dude, so I was a bit leery to start. I hadn’t seen him around the office in the three years I’ve been having my head shrunk there, so I didn’t even know what he looked like. As a fun little frosting on the whole thing, my appointment was at one and I had a gig the night before. I know that you normal working people might think one is late, but not when you walk in the door at six that morning after playing songs whose titles all end with the word ‘girl’ for a bunch of drunk meatheads and woo girls. Wow. Bitter much? Anyway, I was cranky and I had an intake to do. An intake is your first appointment with a new cat. Get to know, talk about your needs, where you are and where you want to be. It’s like paying for a job interview.
So I meet the new cat. Young guy, dressed well and pleasant. He has this irritating way of saying ‘yeah?’ at the end of sentences. Like Canadians say ‘eh.’ “Tell me about where you are, yeah?” It’s kind of annoying. Not trying to be a dick, but first impressions, yeah? Before we got to all that he tells me that two interns are observing him, and he asked my permission to allow them to observe our little play date with my brain. Of course I said yes; I’m not a total dick, and how are these people supposed to learn the realities of the sterile data they are fed in a lecture hall, yeah? So I said yes.
Enter a woman younger than me with the possibility of woo girl like qualities, and an older woman who nods slowly with her head to the side as if she were a mother listening to how her kid was disenfranchised by her other kid. I could have said bullied, I guess. Whatever. So now it’s a party. I’m in a chair clawing with my index finger at the skin that borders my thumbnail, looking at the floor and waiting patiently for the technical talk among the professionals to cease. My new shrink says to me, “So what are your main concerns right now, yeah?” With six eyes looking on me as if I were going to give a Nobel Peace Prize speech (ten if you count glasses), I say, “Two things. I can’t write, and I can’t orgasm. My name is Andy, by the way.” ::shaking of hands with the women::
I take Prozac, and any of you kids out there who take antidepressants will know that most of them take your junque away. Whether it’s your libido, your erection, your moderate interest in anything sexual. It’s a common side effect for many of them; Prozac is no different. It’s actually pretty notorious for it. My new shrink nods in agreement and talks fifty cent words to the women. The younger woman (secret woo girl) engages me, asks me questions, and for a fraction of a second before I answer, I think to myself, “Who the hell are you and why are you talking to me?” But I answer, and it turns into a panel discussion about how I can’t orgasm.
We resolve with some discussions of my options, and we are changing my medications. I’m sure you all care very much. But there is a moral here, and I didn’t realize that there was one until my new shrink said to the two women, “Take advantage of how open and honest Andrew is being. You won’t get that from a lot men. It’s a very good thing.” I thought to myself, ‘isn’t that strange.’ I was unaware that I was the exception and not the rule. I wonder how other people who see a shrink or a therapist handle themselves. How can you get proper care if you’re not entirely honest?
Yeah, I know. Talking about your malfunctioning dick isn’t something that is high on your list of things to do. But these are the people that can help you. If you’re not true to them, how will you resolve your problems? I think this model can be applied to other things that maybe apply to more of you. Dudes my age, I’m talking to you. Prostate check? Yeah. Do it. Cancer and death are silly repercussions of shyness and bravado. Ladies, gynecologist? Yeah, it sucks, and as a dude, I’m really happy that I don’t have some of those tools shoved in my body cavity. (I think I’ve payed my dues, though.) But you know what, the discomfort is a fine wage to pay for maybe saving your life with early detection.
These are extreme examples, but at the same time are very pedestrian ones. I talk in this theatre about being honest and beautiful to yourself. This also applies to how you present yourself to others, especially those who can help you in some fashion. I want to remedy my orgasm problem. I can’t do that unless I talk to my shrink, yeah? How hard is it to say, ‘Hey, bro. Prozac has robbed the finish line from me.’ Like he hasn’t heard it before. And it’s not like he can read my mind. What makes this story funny is the presence of the two special guest women interns. But it’s a good opportunity to show you cats and kittens that being honest to your own beauty isn’t always the most comfortable thing to do, but in the end, it’s important. I mean, shit; if I can tell you guys about my wiener issues, why can’t I tell someone who can actually do something about it? Wait, can you guys do something about my Prozac penis, yeah? Well, shit, why am I paying all this money to professionals when I had you guys all along? Jeeze. I should have asked earlier. I’m going to write Prozac Penis again. There it was, yeah? Stay beautiful, kids.
Join me on
Also, follow my late night, Ambien tweets at