April 23, 2014
So okay, we know therapy seems like its just for BSCBs and Teresa Giudice. That is false. A true betch knows that we not only go to therapy, but we actually enjoy the experience. Most of us discovered therapy around middle school and yes, at first we were unhappy. Therapy is like, embarrassing, we told our idiot mom. Usually this happened when our parents got divorced, we got caught blazing with our cousin, or casually stopped eating when our first french-kissing bf stopped calling because he was obvs gay and that's clearly not our fault. So, we started seeing some shrink once a week. Gross. But actually, this bro turned out to be super chill, you guys. Here's how to go to therapy like a betch:
It's in our betchy DNA to talk shit, and who better to talk shit to than a therapist who a) doesn't care about any of the people you talk about b) who won't ever hear their side of the story and c) will literally lose his whole life's work if he tells your secrets? Therapists want nothing more than to hear the juicy shit-talking that make our lives worth while, plus there is zero fucking chance that he's going to start talking shit about you because he'll probs get arrested or something. That why his hair is so big, it's full of your bullshit.
Your therapist doesn't want to talk about his or herself, which is good, because nothing could be less interesting to us than other people's lives. Your therapist should say things like "How are things?" "Whats going on?" and "Hmmm." He'll nod his head (we assume, in agreement) and write shit down (we assume, our memoirs). While we have heard that some therapists make suggestions for communicating more effectively with friends and family, if we ever run into one of these clowns we're going to fire his ass. We're paying you to tell us we're right, not to question our motives, asshole.
We dgaf about what our therapists actually think, but they do have a degree in words that are really fucking hard to argue with. For example: "I'm sorry I spilled on the dress you lent me, Jess. I've been really struggling with attachment issues and my therapist says it manifests in selfish behavior patterns. I mean, you know my dad is never around..." This kind of response allows us to a) seem down to earth by apologizing, b) puts the blame entirely on someone else, and c) makes Jess feel bad for talking about some party foul while you're basically like, little orphan Annie but way hotter and not ging.
Therapists know not to bite the hand that pays them obscene amounts of money to zone out. Natch.
This may be why we love him the most. No, he's not going to smoke you up and he won't roll deep with you. But are you trying to make up for a whole semester of not doing work in the last 3 days of class? We feel some ADD coming on. Going on a two week cruise with the fam and worried they'll maintain the drinking limit EVEN IN INTERNATIONAL WATERS? Anxiety. Done. Okay, so you'll need to practice your best "I'm so panicky/tired/bored, whatever shall I do?!" but once you do the legwork, you've got a free ticket to candyland courtesy of Daddy's BlueCross BlueShield.
So while at first glace, therapists seem totally NOT OKAY, they're actually a betch's ally. Seeing the therry is far superior to going to sad AA meetings when you get a DUI - those people hold hands. Plus, our therapist hates poor people as much as we do. I mean, can you really see people with gross issues like crack addiction and depression coming into his chic 34th floor office and paying his fee? No, they need that money for crack, fucking duh. Best of all, when you're behaving like an asshole and your mom or your professor is giving you shit for who-the-fuck-cares, you can always just respond "I can't wait to talk to my therapist about this." Check mate, betches.