What's The Deal With Therapists? Am I Right?

I've decided to go to a therapist. I know this must come as a huge shock, being that I live in New York, am in my twenties, and have decided to make a career out of making people laugh at my expense--and yet, it is true.

I sort of feel dirty trying to find one, however. It's like seeking out a prostitute: you need one, but it's not like you can ask your friends for a referral.

Going to a therapist is like seeing a prostitute in many ways, I guess. At least, it's the kind of prostitution that, as a woman, I can get on board with. It’s like paying someone to be your friend, but you get all the best parts of the friendship, and none of the hassle. I am, at this moment, salivating over the idea that I can walk into a room, immediately start bitching about my problems, have someone who not only listens intently without speaking, but gives me good advice and doesn’t judge me for anything I say, and then when I’m done, I can just stand up and walk away. I don’t even have to care if they have any problems they want to tell me about. (I’m not paying you to speak, toots.)

I mentioned this very thought to my roommate, who reminded me that therapists can’t totally replace friends, because you can’t call them up whenever you want or run into them just walking around.

Which is why it is my plan to begin seeing so many therapists in Manhattan that I end up bumping into them on the street, so that—after the appropriate “What a surprise!” pleasanty—I can launch into a full-scale discussion of my Daddy issues.

I think the neuroses in this blog post alone could constitute my first four sessions.