Gordon Ramsay is my Therapist (?????¿)

Dear diary, journal,

It’s been about three weeks since my old therapist, Oprah Winfrey, decided she didn’t want to work with me anymore. Personally, I find it outrageous, I really liked her. (I even had a cardboard cutout of her in my bedroom!)

I’m not bitter about Oprah not wanting to help me anymore. Perhaps one day we’ll meet again and I can carry her off into the sunset while singing bad music from the 80’s. She always said I was crazy, but the only thing I was crazy about was her. She also kept screaming that she “wasn’t my therapist” and that I should “get out of her house.” (Look, Oprah, just because your net worth is $2.9 billion doesn’t mean squat. Be a bit more humble!)

Since Oprah left me, I’ve switched to Dr. Gordon Ramsay. For some strange reason, I can’t place my finger on where I’ve heard that name before. It must merely be a coincidence, right? Right. You’re so smart, you always agree with me. I looked up reviews on him, and he seems to shout at his patients. That’s okay, I do like it when they take power [insert purr here].

Also, remind me to buy Vegemite at the store tomorrow and more spoons. Apparently you’re not supposed to eat the spoon.

Yours truly,

Yourself.

Dear journal,

That was the worst therapy session I’ve ever been to! I had it yesterday and let me just tell you: Gordon Ramsay is not who I thought he would be. I don’t know, I was really falling for his bright blue eyes, and the way they twinkled under the dim light. I started to fantasize about how they might look under the bright moonlight, but then what happened after made his seemingly beautiful soul turn into a black hole. The black hole engulfed me, man, I don’t think I can get over him. I really loved him in the hour I knew him, more than I loved anyone. Just not Oprah, never Oprah.

Here is basically what happened, minus the expletives because this is a PG journal:

Gordon: WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY KITCHEN? GET TO WORK.

Me: And by kitchen, you mean therapy-room-thing, right?

Gordon: NO, YOU _______ DUMB _____, WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?

Me: Well, since you asked, when I was a just a wee schoolboy in France, I was diagnosed with many disorders. (Plot twist: I’m a girl.)

Gordon: I CAN SEE THAT, ESPECIALLY IN YOUR FACE, YOU _____ _____ ____, NOW IF YOU DON’T GET TO WORK, I’M GOING TO PUREE YOU IN WAYS YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THINGS COULD BE PUREED.

Me: Gordon, babe, save the dirty talk for later! All your workers will get mad!

Gordon: GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN, YOU _____ ______ ______ ______ _____, _____ _____ _____ _____ _____ _____!

Me: No man has ever called me anything more beautiful before.

It was then and there where the conversation ended, but I don’t think that’s where our love ended. Love doesn’t end, it continues to unfurl. True love is forever, and that’s what I’d like to think occurred between Gordon and I. Love continues to grow, and yes, I might be getting a restraining order from him, but it’s okay. I’ll find a way for him to need me. Just like I will with Oprah.  I really get attached to my therapists and I just don’t see why they don’t like me.

Maybe one day.

Yeah, maybe one day.

Also, you accidentally bought Marmite, not Vegemite. And you ate the spoon again.

Yours truly,

Yourself