Therapy, opera and cashmere

People keep asking how and why I keep writing and writing and writing. How.... that's easy, because I am an alone person in my thoughts and since I cannot be described as outgoing I pour it all out in here. Why? That's more difficult to answer, but I like to answer it like this... it is therapy. If I didn't I would suffer from mental constipation. It is really therapy. Had I to book the couch I would firstly require a very solid couch, next I would need many years, and worse still... I would need to book a therapist. And I get stuck there, not on the couch I mean, stuck on looking for the right therapist. Because therapists are a lot like shoes, you don't just want one your size, but it has to fit comfortably and not pinch. It's also got to be the right colour. And if they are so much like shoes, where would I find a red-stiletto therapist? I don't know how to answer that. Because red stilettos, as sexy as they might be don't spell comfort. Meaning... I would need a running-shoe kind of therapist? No thank you. That would be so boring. I guess I'd settle for a pink ballerina style kind of therapist, one with a purple handbag even, like Tinky-winky. And he'd listen and listen until I'd make him deaf, which isn't a very good idea because then he wouldn't be able to come with me to the opera and hold my hand when I cry because the two lovebirds on stage are about to be parted somehow. And then it wouldn't do to make him go blind either because it would stop all the hilarious cashmere cushion shopping. No, I'll stay put and make it very easy for him. Because in therapy, you first have to love yourself...