So, yesterday I told my psychiatrist about my retail therapy habit. Of course he asked me why, what purpose does it serve for you, why do you do this - you know........all those questions you have no fucking answer for. Anyway, I think about it for a minute and I said, "I guess cause it makes me happy." So, he goes and doubles my anti-depressants thinking that if I'm happier, perhaps I won't shop so much (he has NO idea...........) but also he thinks it will help with my, uh, obsessive compulsive issues. I don't do the hand-washing, or checking and re-checking locks routines, but I obsess over silly shit and then shop. Until I obsess over crap again, and then shop again. And so forth. Tom Cruise would be so disappointed in me. Like I give two shits. Perhaps I'll obsess over that tonight and then go buy him a Xenu outfit and a doughnut for his ever disappearing wife, Katie, who I used to like - until she found something attractive about him.
But I digress. I told my husband and one of my daughters about my OCD, and they said they could have told me that - there's no reason to go to therapy to be told I have OCD when we've all known that for years. I hate them both. I then happily (cuz now I'm perpetually happy) told them that I'll give up retail therapy for arson. They shut up.
Fiery Fatima
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