Truth and Such

Two years ago I realized I couldn’t trust people. It’s my mother, she’s a whore. Professionally. She doesn’t pay taxes. That bothers me. My whole life I thought she did. And my dad, he’s an accountant. It’s an interesting mix. I filed mine yesterday. I’m a cashier.

I went to H & R Block. My dad refuses to serve the family. He says it’s my mother’s job. He was joking though. I think. I hope. Surprisingly he knows my mother doesn’t file taxes. He never told me. Neither did she.

When I confronted my mother after her shift she laughed. There’s no receipts she said. My father agreed. So did H & R block. Collectively. Even the secretaries. I think they’re in my mom’s Heidi Fleissesque black book, like Charlie Sheen. Even the secretaries.

I wondered what Freud would think. So I read a book. I disagree with his assessment. Repressed sexual desires? My mother, the whore? Fetishes and the castration complex? Wow. I closed the book halfway through.

Three weeks later I saw a therapist. After eighteen minutes she prescribed an anti-depressant. Actually two. I wasn’t depressed. I didn’t even tell her what was wrong. I guess that’s what they do. I stopped going and forgot to call twenty four hours ahead to cancel my appointment. I was half an hour late with the call. They charged my insurance company. I guess that’s what they do.

My friend suggested a psychotherapist. He wouldn’t let me sit on a chair. Or chew gum. He said he wanted any tension vocalized not chewed. Interesting. He must have read Freud. I laid down on some Jennifer Convertibles lounge bed. Maybe it was Ikea. I don’t know. I’m not a designer. It was green. More of a blue green. A seafoam. I know colors.

I was never really a fan of doctors. It’s because I can’t swallow pills. It’s embarrassing to tell the doctor to make the antibiotic prescription for liquid. They laugh. Not in my face. They wait until I leave. The receptionist chuckles. I’m sure it’s on my chart. I can’t swallow pills.

My father used to take me to a lake when we were younger. At least he called it that. It was dirty. More of a watering hole. Or a rain season’s puddle. It was dirty. I met a girl there once. I didn’t like her. We went out for a few months. The town’s preacher stole her. She lied to me and cheated. It was fine though. I didn’t liker her. She swam in that dingy water.

I read some philosophy. Some Wittgenstein and Krauss. Then some O’Brien, Herr. They were in Vietnam. I think. I finished with a little Lanzmann. I didn’t get much. I guess there is no truth. We all swim in that lake that’s really a water hole that’s really a rainy season’s puddle. Just truth as we perceive it. We all swim in shit. It’s glorious.

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