Psychology. I’ve always considered it a made-up science. I guess, technically, all science is made-up if you really think about it. But psychology more so than others. Talking about your feelings? Not real. Trauma? Get a job. I have weird kinks I don’t know how to unpack? No I don’t, everyone likes a pigeon costume in the bedroom.
But I actually applied to URochester on the premise of becoming a therapist. Why would I do this, given my opinion on the field of study? Perhaps because I live a life of illusions and deception. My own mother believed I was Jeff Bridges for the first three years of my life. If I could make a career out of telling people I know how to help their problems, I would continue my journey of smoke and mirrors.
But actually, my distaste for the psychological field was developed recently. I accidentally entered a wormhole (a surprisingly boring experience that I won’t lull you to sleep with the details with) into the past and became acquainted with the father of psychology himself, Sigmund Freud. The meeting began conventionally — I explained the wormhole situation, he sat me down on his couch and called me hysterical, and next thing you know his mouth was on mine and we were on the floor.
Once things got more serious (and we made the move to the bedroom) things went sour. He tried to play some mood music — “Daddy Issues” by The Neighbourhood — which made me feel like I was a stand-in for someone else in his life. When the “main event” properly started, it just went further downhill. Let’s just say when I saw what he was working with, I wasn’t experiencing his famed concept of “penis envy.” But whatever, we had already started, so I figured we’d complete the ordeal. Halfway through, he started crying, saying that he was ashamed of his “anal fixation” and that he saw me as a “father figure.” It was all rather on the nose, to be honest. The whole thing lasted a sweaty and deflating two and a half minutes. When it was over, he laid there, red-faced and panting. I stood up, looking down at him and shaking my head.
“Was it good for you, too?” he asked. I shook my head. It was not. At that moment another wormhole opened beneath my feet and blissfully returned me to the modern time.
After this incident, I found that I couldn’t bring myself to continue my time in URochester’s psych program. Freud came up a lot in class, and it was just embarrassing seeing his regal renderings on the screen and knowing the truth. Maybe those other students could muster up respect for his ideas, but after meeting the man behind the madness and the missionary method of his meat, my mind was made up.
