Drunk tounge is the honest one in my opinion. So let's get drunk people and for fuck's sake let's be honest for once. What do you want from life? What do you want from yourself, from people around you? Don't think about the meaning of life. You won't find it. Think about yourself. When you go to sleep don't ask your god for answers. He doesn't, and even if he does, he's a little egoist and he definitely won't share it with you. He left all this shit for us to decide, and we have to put up with it every fucking day while he's liyng on a heavenly beach doing probably nothing. Hell, maybe even drinking one of those colorful umbrella coctails looking at us and laughing really hard. Yes, we fucked it up, but hey, so did he. These are the words that none of my patients will hear from me. Legally I can't interfere with their religious beliefs. Fuck me, I am allowed to tell them they're stupid, out of control and ugly, but I can not tell them their god is an idiot. I'm back in that one sofa one extremely comfortable black chair room, listening to your crap, getting paid for it. Peachy is what this world is.

First of all, I am not dead. I know that some of you might think I ODed on cocaine or some other shit while I was two months gone, but last time I checked I fucked some, I took some and I am still very much alive. I am not sorry if that dissapoint you although I must say I had that almost dying experience a while ago. no, I will not share that one with you. Too messy and bloody at some points, yet very interesting and very not to tell anyone. I took a week off a week ago and I'm taking another one starting tomorrow. Gladly, I don't have to work for living since I have a shitload of money, so I can piss on you mentally unstable people whenever I want, laugh at all the "emergency calls" I get every fucking day and do nothing, absolutely nothing. I will return to the one sofa one extremely comfortable black chair room when I need to reboot my system, charge my batteries, listen to your crap and feel better about myself, and when I do that, I will give you advices and you will take them and put them in life. And that's when I feel better. People don't change, they just get old.

A one hundred-dollar bill, the only one left out of four thousand I took from my vault without even blinking, fell out of my pocket while I was trying to undress myself, more mentally than actually with my hands, beacause of the unstable state (when it goes to either standing straight or talking) I was in at that very moment. Thirty nine Benjamins went shopping for adventure over four nights. I've been fucking like crazy. Everywhere. Literally. That caused me a massive sex-hangover, and we all know how tiring that is. Some things you can not unsee, some unhear, some undone, some unfuck. And some you can not fuck again. Well, I did it, of course. While I was trying to accomplish that undressing part I realized I wasn't alone and soon enough some pretty hands were all over me, helping with my drug-connected clumsiness. She was stunningly beautiful, with those blue eyes staring at me piercengly and most definitely top five breasts. She was licking all of my body and I couldn't remember what drugs did we take as last, but you gotta believe me, the feeling of her tounge touching my legs was out of this fucking world. She should be given as a bonus when buying what I bought that night. When I came for the second time she only laughed and started fingering and licking me at the same time, again. She was like a heaven sent angel who's only task was to fuck my brains out and she did it with a fucking A. Afterwards, she did two lines of whatever she had in her purse, using that left behind Benjamin, smiled at me with the most talented lips I've had so far, and seconds later she was gone. Angels do exist.       

I need a fucking break from boring people.

That day, my heart was pounding like a voodoo drum. A sudden butterfly effect hit my head ruthlessly. One, two, three... I counted to get my shit together, but it felt like I was not getting out of that state any time soon. I thought I was about to die and weirdly, at that time, I was madly excited about it. I was lying naked on my bathroom floor, touching myself very slowly, licking the palm of my hand just to feel the structure of the fingertips under my tounge. Rolled Benjamin was smiling at me derisivly, looking like the proudest motherfucker in the whole snorting world. I didn't know how I got there, I couldn't remember who supplied me with the most extraordinary white lady EVER, I had no idea whether my heart was able to take it, and gladly, I didn't fucking care, not for a second. If we manage to live through moments like that one, it seems to be a fucking crime not sharing it with anyone.

I had a deja fuck when last Friday's 5pm patient entered room. I couldn't remember where or when I saw that familiar face last, the only thing I was 100% sure was having a decent fuck. Weirdest feeling ever. A good friend of mine once told me "remember my dear, you can't fuck'em all, there's simply too many of them", but to tell the truth I don't care much for brains, I wish all people were hot so I could put them, with no exceptions, in my fuckable zone (just like I did with Scarlett Johansson after "Match Point"), but some of us are fucking ugly and I'm definitely Jolie-Pitt booked till I'm at least 40, so "there's not THAT many of them out there", I replied. The bar has been set up high, no doubt. And no (I'm answering your loud thoughts), my notebook is not the aggregation of randomly fucked personas. I forget most of the faces 5 minutes after, not even mentioning names (I'm hopeless with names), so writing down sex positions would get extremly boring after a while. Anyway, the only way to put my words on a higher, unspoken level is by typing and typing only. For example, I always pretend to take notes (like on a paper with an actual pen) while on a session with a patient, so he/she feels heard or needed or whatever. I mostly doodle or draw forgotten comic superheros. How did I get my PhD, right? Yeah, I really can't say. I miss my coke & oxy nights. I probably had that deja fuck I can't remember clearly during one of those, when you wake up almost fully clothed and cover your face with hands when way too fucking bright lights hit your face and you wonder whether it's the day after or you're dead, and when you realize you're actually alive the pain is so unbearable you wish you were dead. Now I take solo coke. I like to think I'm too old for Oxy, even though it's bullshit, coz nowadays coke is more of a kid's stuff rather than prescription drug. At least easier to get. Fuck it. So, bout my notebook..

Steve, 32, married. He's pretty damn sure his wife fakes orgasms. Anna, 41, divorced at 34, long term boyfriend who works a lot and doesn't have time and mostly energy to pleasure her sexually as he used to. Maria, 27, engaged. She's a sex addict. Those 3 randomly picked out of my notebook (I'll tell you more about it next time) personas have at least 2 things in common: 1) they cheat on their 'better halfs' and 2) they talk about it in details in my office. I've had them cheaters on my couch countless times. There is always a peculiar clevereness in them, aside from misery. Usualy they don't want to be cured, for that you need to think of yourself as a poisoned person, and they defenitely don't. They choose therapy to feel better about themselves. It's like some kind of penance. They sit, they talk about how they cheated on their beloved ones, which is the reason I like listening to them - that's the clevereness part, sometimes they cry (still have no idea why it happens, maybe it's like an after sex shower for them, or something as clean as a sound of it in my head right now), and in 50% of the cases they do it again - that's the misery part. Yes, every second person do come back with a new achievement recollection to share. I know what you think, 50% is not that bad, right? It's like reading about cancer and telling yourself 'it won't happen to me'. Reality check - it does! That other half of the sex with not labeled as a better half person's fans don't come back into therapy, coz a) they were exposed, b) they liked the shower better, and c) they stopped cheating and remain as a perfect couple (that happens when they keep their mouths shut and let's be honest people are too much of egoists to keep that kind of information for themselves). I won't give you any advice on wheter you should or shouldn't cheat, I'm not fucking god, although we all know what he would have to say about it, but I do know one thing - if you do cheat, let me be the only person who hears about it. The rest is insignificant.

I usually don't sleep much, as you already know. When insomnia kicks in I'm doing stuff till like 8am 3 days + 1 bottle of Jack Daniel's after. I do remember clearly that alohol and drug misuse severe horrifying chest pains, been there done that - not the greatest time of my life, so I take it low on % on those sleepless nights filled with the company of the White Queen. That egoist doesn't like liquid company much. Going back to the stuff, they happens when I don't feel like having any patients or do feel like doing 3am cocaine - most likely - or there's any of Jesus related holiday on (which is seriously pissing me off). Some of you might be offended by what I just wrote, but I don't even know how to pretend to care about that right now. OK, moving right along. Also, when I'm fed up with the pink shade of youporn.com (did you know they have a "vintage" category where you can find crazy 80s porn? peachy..) and the blue one of my Facebook profile (yes, I do have one, no, I am not sharing it with you) I go clubbing. Not for dancing, not to drink myself silly and have bathroom sex, which by the way is disgusting! I just need to get drugs from somewhere, now don't I? I'm not gonna park my car in some creepy parts of the city that look like chainsaw massacred. I'm not nearly that crazy. I go, I mingle, I get some souvenires and I'm back at my house with something interesing and something mind-blowing - a person and cocaine that is. Or is it the other way around? It mixes for next few hours, that's for sure. I'm passed morning headaches. I feel absolutely nothing. I could go on like that till I probably OD'ed, but I don't. Despite everything I've said so far, from what you might have drawn some conclusions, I do love life. Yes, I said I was an addict, but I didn't say I had a problem.

In some parts of the world people don't celebrate made for big slutty kids Halloween and if I lived in those countries I would have many depressed personas knocking on my door right fucking now. But, I sadly do not live there and have to wait 2 days after pumpkin holidays to feel alive again. Wait till all the fake feelings accompaning dressed as movies' heroes and this year especially zombies and covered in blood vampires go away. All they are left with is sadness and I love sadness! It makes me happy! Last year around Halloween I had this kid who was introduced by his parents as mentally unstable. God, I hate treating kids! I remember being one, always angry at my folks. Besides, those really mentally unstable have nothing interesting to say. Literally NOTHING. Repeating themselves like a broken record. A shot of whiskey + quick line and I'm good to go, ready to be in the same room as those brats. So.. After 15 minutes I knew there was absolutely nothing wrong with that kid and I felt bad for him, it was not his fault his parents were fucking idiots, so we spent that time playing Xbox (I do have an Xbox hidden behind that famous painting on my wall - isn't it like the best thing ever?). In the meantime I teached him how to accomplish the master of lying so that next time his DNA connected people wanted something from him, he would know exactly how to react and make them think exactly what he wants them to think. Brilliant. Those "fucking idiots" (yes, I am indeed quoting myself) sent me a thank you letter in which they refered to me as the best psychiatrist they've met so far. So far? Fuck me, that sounds like a lot.

"I need to be myself, I can't be no one else". Liam Gallagher wrote that line back in 90's. Kinda sounds like a 14yo missunderstood girl's statement, don't you think? Just putting it out there.. He himself refers to "Supersonic" as a collection of nonsense lyrics and I couldn't agree more. Oh well, that nonsense put Oasis on a spot and they've been there ever since, of course with some ups and downs between sniffing and fucking and other let's call it inconviniences, but still, who wouldn't fuck Liam's brains out? Yes, I'm rulling all of you straight indignant at this thought guys out, you may rest in peace now. As for me, I would do literally anything to have younger Gallagher in my office for just a day to get my hands on that precious mind of his. For fucks sake, he plays tambourine! That would be a treat, no doubt about it, and you know why? People tell me who they are every fucking day and I simply ignore them. I want them to be who I want them to be. We all do that. So yeah, I call that line bullshit, coz everyone can be anyone, anytime we want, anywhere in the world. It's called lying and trust me, in the end it doesn't hurt that much. Hell, even if it does, it is totally worth it. Doctor approved. I was to talk about my addictions, but I played that dusty record and I guess I got bored and drifted off. Next time.

For a person that does not believe in the Almighty I use its name quiet often. Stupid human habits.

I spilled an Iced Tea (thank god it wasn't Voss or Long Island Iced Tea for that matter, that would be a total waste!) on someone. Intentionally. That person was way beyond rude to me, so I reacted and now I'm sued for god knows what. Sometimes I really hate my patients. And just to be clear, it happened 1st time (in my office) and I'm not as proud of it as you might think. Am not. I would be more than happy, in 7th fucking heaven happy to share this story with details, but I can't coz of these ridiculous doctor-patient confidentiality rules a person with no life set long time ago while having a nervous breakdown, obviously. God, I hate women. You try to read their little brains (at least you pretend you give a shit), you listen to the crap their mouths are capable of producing and what do these bitches do in return? They stab you in your back. With a fucking butcher knife. And now I have to appear before court coz one bitch, oh excuse me, woman felt un-fucking-wanted and not worth listening to in my office? Seriously? Bitch, you wouldn't find an interesting topic from your life to talk about even with a brain map and a mind-reader. Just FYI, I was not on drugs when I spilled that Iced Tea, the peach one if any of you are interested, in her face. I had had a line an hour before that session but it only lasted 20 minutes, so.. Bugger. Wish I could blame it on cocaine in court. That would be so much easier. Oh, and one more thing. I've never had so many pending appointments in my entire career since the article entitled "A mad psychiatrist" came out 3 days ago. Imagine that, you people really are more fucked up than I am. Comforting.

They say we all lose 21 grams at the exact moment of our death, right? There was a movie about it or something.. Anyway, I really hope it's not that 21 grams of cocaine I had this week, coz if I die today, or tomorrow, I will be so fucking pissed I have to put up with this afterlife shit clean. If I'm going for a ride, there's only one way to do it. When it happens I need 2 things to make me happy, things that are making me pretty happy right now, which is sex (most of the times) & drugs (always), and I'm not even mentioning the rock'n'roll, coz honestly, I've never been a huge fan of it. It sucked. It sounded like a puke of a stupid teenage girl. Surprise, surprise, it still does! Oh, and the afterlife sex has to be good, outstanding if I can choose. At all times. Coz last night I was in bed with a 2 (not 2 people, 2 as a number describing intercourse in a scale of 1 to 10) till 4am, when I finally opened my door and told it to get the fuck out. So please, send me only 7-10 when I'm dead. Leave the 1-6 for super bad guys, like Tony Hayward or.. Ben Linus. Ok? Thanks.

It was a long, white Monday. I'm sorry to dissapoint you, I know drugs are not the most original addiction of 2010 with all the 'celebrities' snorting it on the covers of magazines, but cocaine really is a bored mind's creation. At least for me it is. My #2. It's a pure break filer when needed, the easiest one, the quickest that kicks in when nothing else finds its place in everyday madness, or boredness in my case. Yes, I do it when I'm bored which is like 50% of my day. I wouldn't be such a great listener (I do listen when I find the case worth listening to) if I was clean all the time. It would be so boring! Do you know how uninteresting people could be? Fuck, I don't think you do. I don' think you are even close. It's like a mind disease for the weak & unsecured. Some of them don't even carry the real pain inside them. Their brains are filled with sand and sawdust which is unimaginably dull on every possible level you could get on when looking for any kind of amusement. I admit, I tried to fight it. The cocaine, not the rudeness. I even saw a psychiatrist once. Yes, I know, isn't it ironic? A shrink at another shrink's office. Quiet amusing I must say and often seen in this profession, but I'm guessing you're not surprised by this information. One has to be fucked up to listen to other fuck ups, right? So, the guy, yes, my psychiatrist had a penis, was selling me the same bullshit I do for living, everyday, well, except Sundays (I do like to sleep on Sundays, for a change) and I was thinking.. How the hell is that helpful? I mean, seriously, is it enough to feel better? Really? Then why the fuck do you people pay me so much money for an hour when all you have to do is to turn on your tv and set the soap opera channel to find all the answers to your problems? Life's so weird. People are weird.

So I had this patient yesterday morning. A very beautiful woman, one of those you bewilderly stare at like a little mesmerized kid in front of a candy shop window. So I had her, in my mind, twice. I couldn't focus on a single word she said, thinking about her lingerie and what would I do if I could finally put my hands on it. Oh yes, I love my job! A beautiful woman, sitting inches away from me, telling all the secrets of her oh so pitiful life, crying, using my kleenex tissues. I fed on her. I fed on her beauty, tears, pain surrounding her like a bad omen. I was inhaling her hidden nudity, swallowing her misery. I couldn't stop. I didn't want to, not for a second of our meeting. And then, after an hour she was gone, leaving me refueled and weirdly happy. Did I mention she was crazy beautiful? Yet another normal day at work.

Hi, my name is.. Actually, I just realized this information is completely irrelevant, so let me start again. Hi, my name is Anonymous and I'm an addict. Yes, I'm aware that telling the name part is the main point of this coming out thing, but seriously, who the hell really cares? Not me, obviously. I'm an addict to many things and when I think about them, when I try to count them, the number turns out to be quiet big and oh my god, it suits me perfectly! Ok, what things you may ask? Well, I guess I can share a few. It's not like I'd have to kill you afterwards, although, and I say it with great sorrow, I wish I had one of those addictions I couldn't tell anyone about. You know, secret stuff. Working for the CIA, FBI or other 3 letter short named organisation. And be totally addicted to it. Fun. Never gonna happen though and you are welcomed to join me in my pain. Condolences allowed. My addictions are more of a bored mind's creation. Like a REALLY bored mind's creation. Sometimes I think I should work as a fortune-teller. You know, one of those creepy people sitting behind the table with cards, crystal ball or other unuseful to the matter things, telling people what they wanna hear, and, most importantly, getting paid for it. Oh wait, I'm already doing that.. Well, not being a fortune-teller, I'm not THAT crazy, but still getting paid telling lost souls what to do with their lives. That's addiction #1. I'm a psychiatrist. I'm highly addicted to other people's thoughts. I'm addicted to their pain. Is that a bad thing? Am I a terrible person? Probably. Then again, who isn't?