Memorial Day Thumb-Therapist Horrorshow

Suddenly you realize your therapist has grown mad at you because you have met his children and complimented him on their physical beauty.  Has he grown angry because now you have reminded him of the flayed god he has now become, a former shadow of his own physical beauty?  Perhaps you have in your compliment formed a dagger & thrust it in his sternum, twisted, and dug out a keyhole of grief? & what primal scene can you see through this keyhole?

Last year on Memorial Day (which is never a holiday for me), I found a therapist growing like popcorn in the callous of my thumb.  We decided to go see a horror movie so we could make a documentary of me being horrified--it would be all of my posterity, most likely.  He wanted a pack of Jr. Mints but I bought him an expensive bottled water because I knew no one can eat a whole pack of Jr. Mints without getting sick of them like horses forced to watch babies in their cribs.

When the movie started I started to feel pale and glittery and I asked my therapist to grow further inside me and tell me what he saw, but he grew so deep inside me I couldn't hear him speak much, all I could hear sounded like spiders in a distant bucket.  He had to write notes, fold them into paperboats ballasted with the cartilage of DSM-approved diagnoses and sail them across the theater on the jets of neckblood I'd been commanded to floodgate.  Some of the notes got caught by buzzheaded fathers in patriotic tees, but one note I caught said, "Hey jackass you've got bad shit going on here.  There's a lot of tax documents floating around in your bloodstream you haven't even signed and I don't think anybody's gonna give you a loan anytime soon."  I can't quite believe him, but I thought I might as well.  I stole a blanket from the couple in the second row and I swaddled myself inside.  I stood on stage, shivered, and became an open secret.  When the film was over, I woke up flailing shadowpuppets against snack advertisements.  There was a hole in my thumb where the talk had once been & looking upward I could see my therapist smiling at me in a full-grown sort of way from the projection booth & from the shadows someone was shooting Jr. Mints into his mouth with a 12-amp leafblower and his pants were down at his ankles & a heavy brown stream shot from his buttocks with such force that he guru-levitated steadily, legs crossed, & from under the seats an army of biohacked penguins raised chuckling upright and called to me, carrying plastic peonies like goblets I knew I must fill with glitter and pale, loitering bruises of television-bosshood.