Anti-Anti-Abortion Dibacle; Punishment Fits Crime?

 

So. I just finished my first psycho therapy session of the week and I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I convinced Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to let me attend therapy sessions twice daily rather than have her commit me to the Shoal Creek Loonie Bin for a month’s stay.

Why I feel good about myself I don’t know. I just do. I want to say my good feelings stem from my psycho therapist’s understanding of my recent actions, but that’s not it. Sam said the only reason I escaped commitment and confinement was because she feels that Squirt is just as guilty as me, and they didn’t have room for both me and the dog at the mental hospital.

Maybe I’m just feeling good about being free.

I’m required to do some homework for therapy that includes restarting a journal. This I am unhappy about. A journal is like a diary except more manly. I’m required to write down each time I sense that I’m getting ready to do something stupid.

“Define ‘stupid’ if you can,” I asked my ex-wife and therapist.

After giving me another strong exposure to the angry psycho therapist glare, she says to me, she said, “Stupid, Mooner Johnson, is what you are when you think you’re being smart.”

“Oh for shit sakes, Sammy. I always try to think smart.”

“Sounds like you’ll be making a lot of journal entries.”

It took me a moment to grasp her meaning. “Bitch.” I really need to come up with a better response for moments like this.

“Ooooo, listen to Mooner’s intelligent repartee.” Then she added, “Suck it up big boy. I’m keeping a room reserved over at Shoal Creek Mental. You screw up one more time before Squirt is off her grounding….”

“Why’d you have to punish the Squirt, Sammy? She was just doing what she misunderstood me to tell her.”

“Don’t you question my parenting skills, Mooner. And don’t you dare go near her for the rest of the week.” Then she added, “That nice Catholic woman let you guys off the hook pretty easily. You’re lucky her church needs a new roof.”

“I think she’s planning to use the hundred grand to buy bingo cards. She plays with Gram and Mother at that bingo place down on Research near North Lamar.”

“Don’t you worry about any of that, buster. You just keep your distance from my dog.”

I got to thinking that maybe my ADHD was interfering with my life and decided that the actual blame for the abortion debacle was an ADHD dealie. I know Squirt takes things in their most literal sense, so I bet my ADHD distracted me and interrupted clear thoughts.

“Mooner, dammit!” Sam yelled at me. “You pay attention to me! I said to stay away from Squirt until Saturday.”

“Fine. But she’s doing some interpolating for me that needs to be done this week.”

Sam gives me the evil eye. “Alright, Mooner, but you do it on Skype. Do not go to my house.”

“I said fine.” Bitch, I thought to myself.

“And you have got to learn to do better than ‘Bitch’.”

Maybe I’m saying things out loud when I think I’m saying the to myself. [Journal entry: Am I saying things to myself out loud? Is that why I keep getting into trouble? Is it the ADHD?]

But I’m in too good a mood to be bothered. I’m ready for a Carta Blanca beer and some Skype time with the Squirt.

Manana, y’all.

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