“‘A misunderstood T-Rex. He only wants a hug, but his short arms, along with society’s preconceived notion about T-Rexes, prevents this from ever happening.
‘A puff of meticulously groomed pubic hair, belonging to a divorced, middle-aged woman, who thought she deserved better, but now realizes it is a lonely, lonely world out there.
‘It’s a very well dressed, but fat, egg. His name is Sir Francisco and he aspires to, one day, be scrambled.’
Paul nodded once, pressed his thin lips together, put the blotted pages down, and made a scribble of thoughts in the notebook on his lap. Then, he took a long, deliberated sip of his steaming chai tea.
Paul is a lanky, flamboyant, barely five-foot tall psychotherapist whose office is located in a cheeky district within the city. Calming incense dwindled here, motivational quotes written in DIY calligraphy displayed there. He said he could help me find myself– a crock of shit if you ask me. But he didn’t-they never do.”