Kristen de Kline #224 Alan. The bloody shrink.

Alan. The bloody shrink. He throws paper at me. Fair fighting. Ground rules. The trauma of infidelity. Alan. Wears brown corduroys. Too short: at least an inch or two. A bush green vest. The same clothes. Every session. Alan: There are rats living in my dish-washer. The man-child's bathroom is saturated like a public urinal. My head was banged against the kitchen wall. Once. Twice. Three times. Smack. Porcelain geese dive-bombing. Alan. Rodent droppings in the kitchen cupboard. Winding their way around the pipes. Can you silicon it up. Alan. Train tracks over the back fence. The V-line rattles the walls at it speeds by. It'd be quick. Alan. Splat. I warned you last week. I thought I'd turned into a cockroach. No. I'm off the gear. It's the rats. More paper: What’s your attachment style? Why it matters. Don't argue. Don't. Argue. I can hear them scratching in the ceiling. Fight fair. Fight. Fair. Breathe in. Have you tried blocking the holes. Steel wool? Mindfulness. Silicone? It's the rats. I say. Alan: They've eaten through the dishwasher cables. Electric wiring. Smoke alarms. Waltzing up and down the hallway, the cat is going schizo. When I woke, there was a family of them nestling in my armpit. The Star Track courier buzzed at the front door. Left me Chelsea Girls, a nine-inch nail and a bottle of Absolut. I warned you Alan. There was one gnawing on my index finger. Another slurping on the nail polish. Ruby red. Chipped. More paper: Time out. Remain calm. Healthy this. Healthy that. Alan. The bloody shrink. Fix up the mess. I pay you enough. Asshole. Just do your job.