He lay back on the couch, and just began speaking.
“It’s like this… I’m fucking tired of introspection and reflection. I’m tired of thinking about my past experiences and how they all affected my thought process and personality. I’m tired of thinking about what it all means, and where it all fits, and how it all went horribly, horribly wrong. I’m sick to death of wallowing in melancholy and sorrow, ayamachi ni obore, you know? Drowning in our mistakes? I’m just tired of thinking.”
“I’m right here, right now, and from now on I’m only going to worry about where I go from here. The past is useless. Yeah, it affected me, but so what? I can’t change it. Yes, people are fucking assholes sometimes, and they can completely drain someone like me, but so what? I can’t change them. I can only change me now. I think all I have to do is make sure that all my goals improve me, and none of my goals involve any other people whatsoever. Even love! Do I need love? Yes. So I’ll love myself.”
“Excuse me, sir, but-”
“Perry Farrell said it best: ‘I want to be more like the ocean. No talking and all action.’ Stop thinking, stop talking, stop analyzing the shit out of everything, and just set goals, with milestones and inchstones. Where do I see myself next week, or in 5 years? Doing what the fuck I want.”
“I’ll never ask someone to change or give me what I need again. It’s pointless. The only reason to mention a desire is because someone isn’t fulfilling it. Somewhere along the way, I’ll look around and notice that someone is already doing what I want. Without a word, I’ll know. And I’m not even worried about that, right now. I have to set up freedom first. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“Um… sir… this is the break room. Do you even have an appointment?”
He stood up and walked to the center of the office, smiled a shit-eating grin, and pulled out an apple in each hand. Therapy sessions ceased immediately as doctors cleared out of there like leaves in the wind. You should have seen those fuckers run! It was glorious. An apple a day, and he gave them both barrels.
The straightjacket just fell right the fuck off. He didn’t need it. It didn’t fit. Everyone was crazy. He was just the first to realize that if everyone was crazy, then crazy was normal, so everyone was normal. Those apples were delicious. All the way to their centers, like lovers.
He buried the uneaten cores in a nearby potted plant. His next FutureMe email would remind him to come back and check on them. He wondered if they would sprout, and get this place closed down.
He left right after that. I mean, what was he going to do? He was still hungry, and all the lunches in the break room refrigerator had names on them.