Some of the more intuitive Fart Blossoms may have noticed that I’ve been having some mental health issues lately - anxiety attacks over pending pop albums, depression over the fact that the fine state of Georgia won’t let me buy beer on Sunday and hypo-mania in between.  So, I went to the VA.

Now, remember, Fart Blossoms, any time I say I went to the VA, you have to do the arm gestures like the Village People…

I went on down to the
U…S…VA
I went on down to the
U…S…VA

Got it?

Anyhoo, they hooked me up with a head shrink to talk about what was bothering me, and I was real excited.  After spending all those years in New Orleans, and knowing half of that city ended up in Atlanta after Katrina, I was hoping for the best.

Imagine my disappointment when, after waiting for two or three hours, I was ushered into an office with not one jar of eye of newt, not one stick of incense burning, not one cauldron bubbling and not one shrunken head on a stick.

Instead there were a couple of chairs and a Dell PC.  I sniffed in disgust. 

I still tried to keep my hopes up, thinking this here was some new-fangled kind of head-shrinking - some 21st century voodoo shit, and that the spirit of Marie Laveaux would walk in and say, “What choo won, chil’?” and all would be well.

Instead, an Irish man named “Dr. McAllister” walked in (and no, Rocky Raccoon, he wasn’t stinking of gin), and sat down and asked me what the problem was.

I told him I needed some head shrinkin’ with some serious mojo on the side.  Maybe a few dead chickens thrown in, to boot.

He blinked.

I waited.

He then pulled out my chart from my “primary care non-physician” and went over my symptoms.

“I understand you’re depressed.” 

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

He frowned and looked back down at my chart.  “And that you’ve been experiencing anxiety attacks.”

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s Madonna’s fault, but that’s not what I need the head shrinkin’ and mojo for, but that is why I need the dead chickens - you know, just to hedge my bets,” I responded.

He squinted at me.  “What the…”

“Look, are you a head shrinker or not?  I’m all for affirmative action and shit, but you’re the first Irish voodoo doctor I’ve ever seen, and I don’t know if you’ve got the proper trainin’ to shrink heads and fix mojo and shit.”

Dr. McAllister obviously wasn’t too bright, because he sat there, usin’ his mouth to try and catch flies, while I waited patiently for a response.  He finally shook his head and started asking questions again.

“Do you drink?” he asked.

“Do you breathe?” I answered.

“Do you abuse drugs?” he asked.

“‘Abuse’ is a strong word…” I answered.

“Do you have trouble concentrating?” he asked.

“Ooh, look!  Something shiny!” I answered.

“Have you ever tried to hurt yourself?” he asked.

“I pop my own zits, does that count?  Should I get a little Korean woman to do that for me?” I answered.

“Do you ever think of hurting other people?” he asked.

“Do you ever wait in the self-check line at the Kroger?” I answered.

“Do you have trouble sleeping?” he asked.

“Only when I don’t drink or abuse drugs,” I answered.

I soon tired of this exchange.  “Look, Doc.  This ain’t why I’m here.  I need you to fix a couple of folks for me - cast some spells and shit, ya’ dig?”

He scratched his head.

“Why don’t I just give you some pills, instead?”

I shrugged.  “That’ll work, too.”

    

*****

    

So, I’m back and freshly medicated.  I appreciate everyone’s patience, and if ya’ll hear of a decent voodoo priestess, let a bitch know.

    

Kisses,
Maxine