The Doctor is In

I have often said that writing is cathartic. It helps me process things, vent, and sort through my mental clutter.

So, why was it surprising to me when, one morning, my medium point pen cleared his throat and began asking me some probing questions?

Pen: So, tell me about your childhood…

Pen: And, what were you thinking when you published that post?

Pen: How did that comment make you feel?

I was reluctant to answer at first, of course. I tend to lean towards glossing over the issues and stuffing matters deep into the subconscious. But, the stolen glances to his wristwatch reminded me that my pen was on the clock. And, I had a feeling that I wasn’t receiving any courtesy discounts.

I was slow to start. But, one confession led to another…It wasn’t long before I began to spill the beans. I really let my hair down, revealing all my dark secrets and fears, exposing all the skeletons. I found it rather enjoyable to purge my soul to an inanimate object.

We were just starting to delve into my teen years when I heard that familiar throat clearing…

Apparently, my time was up and we weren’t scheduling for next week. I was actually referred out. To a specialist. It seems I challenged my pen beyond his capabilities.

But, I do have an appointment with a purple Sharpie next week.

Sounds promising, ya think?