Ohhh…Beeehave! [Behavioral Therapy]

“I feel lost in my own little world,” Timothy confided. “It’s like I notice people but I don’t notice them at the same time. I don’t know how else to put it.”

[Three minutes of silence.]

“I feel so self-absorbed like I’m stuck in a rut immersed in my own gut. I think people are talking about me. I think they see me but more than that…they see through me. That threw me…for a loop. That’s the scoop. A scoop of poop.”

[Two minutes of silence.]

“I feel like I’m talking to myself, with myself…like I am eavesdropping on a conversation made for one. So, perhaps I have won? Or am I done?”

[One minute of silence.]

“Well, Timothy, I’d like you to try an exercise for me, okay?”

“I want you to go to a place where people hang out, like the mall. And, I want you to notice what kinds of shoes people wear.”

“That’s it? Seems kind of trivial to me.”

“Well, just humor me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I want you to notice the colors of the shoes these people wear. Pick out one person. Write down the color of their shoes, or the colors if there are more than one. Do that for four people, and bring your observations back to our session next week. Can you do that?”

 

***************************************

 

Behavioral therapy attempts to change maladaptive thought patterns via changing behaviors. In this example, Timothy knows he spends too little time thinking about himself and observing his surroundings with a “self-centered” lens. However, he is stuck and doesn’t know how to get out of his conundrum.

His therapist gives him an exercise that might sound elementary, but it is a stroke of genius. Imagine Timothy wanting to learn to play baseball. Would you put him up to bat against a major league pitcher who can throw 95-mile per hour fastballs with pinpoint accuracy? Of course not. And this therapist knows that. This therapist is starting Timothy out with Tee-Ball. She is meeting Timothy at his level, and her assignment is spot on.

 

For more posts on related topics, click here:  Psychological Therapies

 

 

 

Wealth is a Band Saw from Hell

 

Christmas was a time of wonder for many kindergartners in Ryan’s neighborhood. They wrote letters to Saint Nick, played tag in the snow, and watched in awe as the lights on the trees blinked in unison. Christmas also meant good eats — ham and mashed potatoes and everyone’s favorite, pumpkin pie a la mode.

 

*****************************************************

 

Ryan wakes in the navy blue, predawn hours. He can smell the coffee from the top of the stairs. Ryan’s father has his rituals, and making lattes is the final step of a twenty-minute journey to wealth and happiness. Today will be different, Ryan tells himself.

Ryan rushes into his parents’ bedroom and stirs his mother with a reveille of pleas to hurry downstairs and see what goodies await him. “C’mon, Mom, let’s see if Santa put my presents under the tree!”

“O.K.!” his mom says and hops out of bed like a baby kangaroo. “Are you excited?” she asks.

“Yes!” Ryan exclaims.

“Are you really excited?”

“Yes!”

“We should wait till after dinner, don’tcha think?”

“No, Mom! C’mon!

“I dunno, Ryan…”

“C’mon, Mom! Stop teasing me!” he says as they scurry down the stairs.

 

“Holy moley!” Ryan screams. “Look at all those presents!”

“Well, you must’ve been a good boy this year!” his mother says.

“I was, I was!” Ryan states. “Can I open them?”

“We have to wait for your father,” his mother replies. “Ned? Are you coming, dear?”

“I’ll be there soon,” Ryan’s father grumbles and buries his head back into the Wall Street Journal. Ryan and his mother sit next to the Christmas tree for fifteen eternities. Ryan is so close to Santa’s presents he can see the shine from the light waxy film on the wrapping paper. The glint of the bows teases him into touching one with the tip of his fingernail.

“Don’t…” his mother says with impeachable eyes and a bitten lip. “You know how your father is,” she whispers as tears form in each eye.

“But, Mommy, when are we going to open presents?”

“Soon, honey, soon,” his mother says, turning away from her son.

“But you’ve been saying that for fifteen minutes,” Ryan says softly enough so only his mother can hear.

“I know,” she says with a sweet smile that doesn’t fool him. “Ned, dear, would you like to join…”

“In a minute, babe! Can’t you see I’m doing something very important?! I’m almost done, dammit!”

“But…”

“Give me a goddam minute and I’ll be done! Bother me again and I’ll take all those fucking presents that I paid for back!” Ryan’s mother jumps like a pheasant in November, shoots up the stairs into the bathroom and cries.

 

January 12, 2019

 

For more stories, click here:  Eat My Shorts!

Dave’s Big Shot

 

“Give you a dollar for a smoke.” The voice is wholly feminine and entices Dave’s attention as well as his insecurities. Dave was not popular with girls in junior high and high school. And college.

“A d-dollar for one s-s-smoke??” he says and turns to face the woman of his dreams. She is objectively gorgeous, even for a mission rat. Dave’s synapses fire at WARP speed: She’s too good for you. You’re not in her league. Where are your balls, man?

“You got two?” she inquires, standing from the cheap, plastic lawn chair. She walks towards him but only a little, as though he is a poisonous yolk encased in a translucent egg.

“T-t-two?” Dave asks, thinking of his balls.

“Yeah, two smokes,” she says and turns away from him.

“Oh y-y-yeah. This is th-the only one I g-g-got,” Dave replies. He holds the smoldering square above his shoulder and notes her fuliginous ponytail held taut by a chunky, red rubber band.

His eyes scour her. She looks to be about five foot six with slight shoulders atop an hourglass figure. She turns to face Dave. She’s wearing jeans as holey as the patron saint of denim stitches. Her tennis shoes don’t match: the left one is baby blue with white Velcro straps; the right, a bright yellow with a tongue lacking its laces. No socks. She is sporting a light pink, tie-dyed T under her frail autumn jacket, and he can make out the shape of her titties. They are smallish but sprightly — probably B-cups. He imagines their nipples erect, ready to play Pit the Pecker.

“Hell, I’ll g-give you t-t-two for a b-b-buck.” She smiles. Dave rejoices — she is the woman of his dreams. “This is th-th-the only one I g-g-got,” Dave repeats. “Gonna have to g-go in and g-get yours in a b-b-bit.” He talks too much and too fast when he’s around beautiful, young women. Stutters like his mind is driving a million miles a minute but his lips are locked at a painful poke. Dave hopes to hop on this speeding locomotive instead of falling to the tracks where his bones would bray. Dave wasn’t popular with girls. You are fuckin’ this up, man. Deep breaths. Slow. Down.

“Okay,” she says and deepens her smile as his eyes shoot from her head to her chest then back to her eyes. Big, sky-blue eyes, so crystalline Dave can see the streetlight in them. She sees him glancing at her funbags and smiles with suggestion. She returns to her chair and sits facing away from him. You’ll never get her; don’t bother trying. Turn around, fool, walk. Don’t you dare look desperate! Feel like a man, act like a man, be a man. Man up! He can see her playing with her hair, a good sign that Dave translates into sexual interest. Don’t say another word. Don’t talk about her hair, her shoes, or her titties. Especially her titties! Just shut the hell up!

Dave hits his square fast and frequent — quick deep breaths in, then exhaling his pollution slowly into the December sky. The night is black as a cursed cat. The nearby grass is frosty, like Santa shattered whiskey bottles over a family Christmas tree then scurried away with the presents.

He hits his square again. Salacious fantasies tease Dave’s libido, and he can feel a slight shift in his jeans. Dave tries to suppress the rush of blood, yet the more he resists the more it insists. His dream woman. He hits his square. Dave’s woman — mismatched shoes, holey jeans, frail jacket — is an easy target. Except he wasn’t popular with girls.

It is midnight cold. Dave thinks of offering her his coat and wrapping it around her, his hands holding her shoulders and massaging the nape of her neck with the meat of his digits. He entertains the idea of tracing her silhouette with his fingernails, her letting out a slight high-pitched giggle at his touch. He imagines reaching up her shirt and tuning her radio, and dropping his ear to her mouth to feel the tempo of her pregnant breath, then gingerly kissing her bottom lip.

She keeps her back to him so he can see her chunky, red rubber band. Is she scared or playing? Both ideas send Dave into a frenzy of pornographic emotions. He wonders what she would look like on all fours, he behind her behind, holding onto her hips and spasmodically filling her tank with his warm love liquid. Dave finishes his square and tosses the butt into the coffee can near her.

“I’ll be back in two,” he says softly. She acknowledges him with a wave of her hand and Dave imagines her wetting its palm, jerking him off with long hard strokes. He can feel his penis charging up the hill, a soldier in battle. Slightly embarrassed, he turns and walks away. Just walk, you perverted bastard! Walk away! And don’tcha come back no more, no more…

Then he is at his bunk. He can’t remember how he got here, the last thirty seconds are a blur of hormones shooting through his veins like semen in a vas deferens. Dave’s member is growing. He thinks of maggots devouring a rhubarb pie, crust crumbs and pie filling sticking to their dermis. That always works.

The dorm is dark and his fellow mission dwellers are asleep. He pushes gently on the fingerprint identification button that unlocks his smarty. A sliver of light bursts onto Dave’s cum-stained sheets. He forgot to make his bed. Hopefully no one notices the remnants of my nightly jizzfests, Dave thinks. He shines the light on the head of his bed and reaches into the front pocket of his laundry bag where he keeps his smokes. There are two packs: one with eight, one unopened. Dave pulls the unopened one out and exits the dorm.

Then he is outside, facing her back. The woman of his dreams. He is unsure how he arrived at this place and how long it took him to get here. Time crinkled. Give her the goddam smokes then get the fuck away from her, you creeper! Leave her alone!

Her legs are crossed so that her pants are highwater. The streetlight reveals a loop of infinity symbols that outline the circumference of her right ankle. She sits, it stands. Long, thoughtful in-breaths; deep, cavernous out-breaths. He fancies that both of them are trying to control themselves with measured exhalations.

Dave spies her heaving breasts. He reaches into his front pocket, his index finger grazing his cock. It grows long and it’s girth balloons to the size of a polish sausage. It is so hard it hurts. Not tree trunk hard, jackhammer hard.

God, if you exist, please let her be receptive. Let her be the woman I know she can be, the vixen for my Dixon, Dave pleads. He approaches. Dixon grows. “H-here are y-y-your s-smokes,” Dave says cautiously. “Y-you c-can have the p-p-pack. K-k-keep your dollar.”

“Thanks, that’s awful sweet of you,” she says, as Dave’s face contorts and grimaces and he releases a deep, cavernous breath through his vas deferens. “Are you okay??” she asks with a smirk.

“Yes, I am good,” Dave says sheepishly to the woman in the mission parking lot, the woman of his dreams.

 

For more stories, check out Eat My Shorts!

I will not use clichés

 

First, click here:  Mood music for reading bad poetry

Then, read poem while music is playing.

The effect is like a slice of lavender butter melting on your tongue or the ebb and flow of a Mediterranean neap tide between your toes. Beyond orgasmic…or your money back. 😉

 

I will not compare thee to a rose
Or call the kettle black
I will not see two sides to a coin
Am I getting on the right track?

I will not climb every mountain
Or swim in every sea
I will not utter the question
To be or not to be?

I will not get wound up
Like a tightly woven rope
Or claim that there is nothing
Without a little ray of hope

I will not bore you with this fact:
There aren’t enough hours in the day
I will not watch a pot of water boil
Or call this child’s play

I will not comment that you are
A Monday-morning quarterback
And if you keep my leash this tight
I’ll tell you to cut me some slack

I will not kill two birds with one stone
Or take it day by day
I will not save a stitch for nine
Am I wearing out my stay?

I am not a rolling stone
That collects no visible moss
I am not the shadow of a former self
Because I bear my cross

I will not throw any stones
In my house that’s made of glass
And if you ask me for another cliché
I will tell you to kiss my ass

For more pain, click here —  Poems & Puns: A Collection of Errers

In Theory

 

So a proton, electron, and neutron go out to lunch. At the end of the meal, the waiter passes a check to the electron and another check to the proton. This doesn’t sit well with the neutron.

“Where’s mine?!” he demands, as the waiter looks at him with humility.

“Well, sir, you are a neutron, and for neutrons, there is no charge.”

 

[Not an original.]

 

For more pain, please click here —   Poems & Puns: A Collection of Errers

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