Zezaurian Therapy Dept. a roaring success

Yesterday Captain Drib Drab and myself ushered in the winter with the first meeting of the Zezaurian Therapy Dept. Life has been particularly unlivable as of late, so we decided to take action and shake off our woes with a spot of psychoanalysis.

As neither of us are qualified therapists, we didn't really know where to begin, so we decided to gain some perspective on our 'problems' by discussing the lives and times of individuals we admire that went through similar existential crises.

Turns out most of them blew their brains out, jumped off cliffs, stabbed themselves in the heart or decapitated themselves. Naturally, this line of thinking was very unhelpful.

We grimly persevered with our futile attempts at fathoming why we are so patently inept at dealing with our own psyches. Spider charts were drawn and the id, ego, and superego were dissected. We mulled over conflict and object relationship theories and free associated until the cows came home.

All I learned about myself was that I was really, really drunk. Then, just as we were making a semblance of progress, an amateur production of Hamlet spilled into the pub and we were forced to endure an hour of drama students going bonkers. After this it was pretty difficult to get our Sigmund Freud hats back on so we killed our beers and dispersed into the night.

Personally, I think our therapy session has done me some good; my shoulders are slightly lighter and my head slightly clearer. I only wish I could say the same for poor old Drib Drab. Last I heard he was locked in a padded room with a stick in his mouth, shouting something about being gang-raped by a giant rhinoceros and an eagle in a pinstripe suit.

Stay sane, doinks!