Freud suggested that I commit murder.

[Jung thought he meant sex unconsciously] This moment remains fucked for reasons unknown to my doctor, who seems qualified with his clean-white trench coat and that "Don't worry you'll be fine" demeanor which fails to convince me-- the one who supposedly trusts this white liar who makes me wonder: What is he hiding from me? Do I have cancer? Does he own stock that prospers from chemotherapy patients? Is it aids? If so, he's coming with me because I refuse to meet my lifes' end in a slow process of costly medication while counting how many T-Cells left until total system failure. I'd much rather pass it on and tell him, with a shit-eating grin "You're It! No tag-backs either shithead, this moment remains fucked and thats final-- there is no such thing as a refund, comprende amigo?" Ofcourse you could say I suffer from paranoia, and then oh-so delicately suggest that I'm consulting the wrong sort of health-professional by saying: "Perhaps you were meant to be a wedding gift to Freud; or some black unconscious flower that sprouted from Jungs' mental cellar." But I already know what will be said when the shrink says to begin somewhere, anywhere-- and the first impulsive thought that yearns to be shared is that "this moment remains fucked" answered with that cliche which rightfully stereo-types head doctors in general "how does that make you feel?" "fucked. and I'm sharing my feelings with you; so im really screwed" <continued, in my head, in secret-- so you can't see whats coming.> "Maybe its best for everyone involved, better for me anyway, if we end this with the shake of a shovel and continue with the mess of your murder and then the intoxicating sound of silence which comes after decisively declaring:" <said outloud in a fatal act of surprise...> "Now you're fucked and the last thing you'll ever think or feel is that 'This moment remains fucked' and you will be stuck with that last thought for eternity in death underneath the soil fertilizing the black flower that grows in the dampness of my cellar." [PS: Thank you note for my shrink.] I think its safe to say that now I'm cured; theres no-one else to kill, and nobody, not one soul knows whats going on in this crazy brain of mine Thank you for "getting fucked"- you give a new meaning to the term 'patient confidentiality'