Content Challenge, this is your swan song. Perhaps the swan will also sing about how I missed three days this time around. Perhaps the swan will also sing about love between my brother and my sister all all all over this land. Perhaps the swan will also go on Star Search and win a million trillion dollars, except I am dating myself because isn’t Star Search called something else now, something that is a part of an intricate bargain between the devil and Paula Abdul?

I will cap off my month of daily (except three days) blogging by revealing something that I have been saving for a special occasion, and this is about as special as it gets round these here parts.

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This past summer, perforated on the horns of numerous dilemmas, I began toying with the idea of seeing another therapist. Although I heartily recommend it, this is not an avenue in which I have had a great deal of luck. My first therapist, whom I picked from an extensive list based upon the sole qualification of having an office on my block, treated me like an intellectual curiosity. My second was a taciturn Lilith Sternin clone who would not speak unless spoken to, and even then, she communicated through an intricate system of pursing her lips. Her dank office was over the indoor pool in a condo tower and smelled of chlorine; on the wall was a painting of a train entering a tunnel, which I hope was a Freudian joke, as that would indicate a (deeply) hidden sense of humor rather than an overtly bad taste in art.

With the idea of a new therapist in mind, I idly investigated what my insurance would cover and glanced over the stark list of names on their website, but I didn’t call anyone because I was afraid I would be true to form and end up with a therapist even crazier than I am.

You know, irony is like a cougar, stalking its pray on pussycat feet, letting the unsuspecting morsel think it is safe before leaping in for the kill.

One day, I took a chance and asked my rolfer for a recommendation, but she couldn’t think of anyone. And yet, on the way out, in her waiting room, I discovered a brochure with a picture of a butterfly on it. “Therapy, Hypnotherapy, Spiritual Counseling, Life Planning,” said the butterfly. “Whatever,” I said, taking the brochure as a sign of fate. I wasn’t sure what “Spiritual Counseling” entailed, but I figured that a lot of my angst had to do with reality either not lining up with my spiritual beliefs or, even more annoyingly, lining up too well.

I made an appointment.

Later that week, I received in the mail a packet on hypnotherapy. This is something I find interesting in general although I was not dying to try it. I figured that the therapist had either sent her generic materials or somehow worked hypnotherapy into her regular sessions; either way, I was annoyed by the tone of one of the photocopied articles, which discussed hypnosis with the fanatical closed-loop logic of religion. Even if you don’t think you can be hypnotized, you can be hypnotized. During a hypnosis session, even if you think you aren’t hypnotized, you really are. It made no sense, but I knew that if I backed out of it then, I’d be too lazy to find another therapist. How bad could it really be?

The cougar tensed and sprang.

To be continued.