Who Put This Song On?

This is a story about Susan. Draped permanently on the back of Susan’s chair is a sweater embroidered with birds-that type of lady. She has this thing I hate, where she’s just always medium, room temperature. Susan looks like a preschool teacher with no emotions. She smiles, she nods, but she almost never laughs or speaks. That might be the number one thing I hate about coming here. She won’t even laugh at my jokes! I know that life with me is a ridiculous hamster wheel of agony, but I’m kind of hilarious, and I’m just trying to make this whole situation less awkward.
I’m the one who begged for my first session, but I was des- perate, and it was almost my only choice. Now that I’m actu- ally doing this, I hate it. I just want Susan to buy my usual pitch: I am okay. I am smart and good. I am regular, and I believe in God, and that means I am happy.
By the way, of course my therapist’s name is Susan. It seems like everyone I meet, everyone telling me how to be, is a Susan.
I don’t trust a Susan, and I don’t think they trust me either.
I don’t like Susan, but I want to impress her I’m usually so good at it.
But this is what I mean about the bird sweater. I know the bird sweater is awful, and just uncool and unappealing in every way it doesn’t even look comfortable. But other Susans like it, and generally all Susans do. It is a sensible piece of clothing; it is normal, and it makes sense. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if I liked the sweater, if I just wore the f****** sweater and didn’t make such a big deal out of everything?