Western People are F&cked in the Head, Especially Women

I don't know about you, but when I think of good times, I think about good food, stimulating conversation and maybe dancing, live music, red meat, hot men, flirtation, sushi-that kind of thing.

Apparently, I am some kind of weirdo, because really, REALLY good times actually is supposed mean going to "therapy" and renacting my trip down the birth canal, sobbing into a fluffy stuffed animal (my "inner child" punching pillows and crying for hours.

So, this columnist is a crazy estrogen-laden freak of a woman thingy and she is a self-confessed therapy junkie. Pathetic.

I hate therapy and I hate therapists. All of them. I hate that they send in social workers to school tragedies instead of having children just deal with stuff themselves and amongst their peers.

I think the therapy industry is one of the most disgusting things on the planet.

People who have enough money to pay other people to listen to their navel gazing crud are disdainful.

How many workers of the rice paddies of Thailand do you think go to therapy?

How many child soldiers in Africa have an Employee Assistance Program that pays for their Gestalt?

We are soft in the west-life is too easy, we have so much food and no existential threats so people have to make up problems in their minds and find things to occupy them (Occupy Wall Street, for example) and people or external problems to blame for the wasteful pathetic existence that is their life.

Can life suck sometimes? Yes-definitely.

I can list about a half a dozen totally SUCKY things that have happened to me in the past while, and during my life.

But am I going to pay some fat, ugly lesbian in a bad sweater (thanks Kenneth for that keeper) to tell me that I'm an idiot, or my mother's an idiot, or to hear her sing to me that "that must feel awful"?

No, not me.

I've fallen on my face PLENTY of times because I'm a risk taker. But that's the way I roll.

I like sinners, I like the grime of life. I'm ready to take my lumps in pursuit of a more meaningful life even if I get bruised.

The hurt fades. Life marches on.

The day I pay someone to listen to my crap, please shoot me.