Notes from the Therapist...

Today I was sitting in my office, perfectly at ease, when a young lady entered, quite out of the blue. I frowned. Usually my secretary will get the okay from me before sending up a patient. I tapped my pencil, annoyed. "Excuse me, miss, are you lost?" I asked, rather irritably. I hate surprise clients.
"Um, uh...sorry, m-ma'am...I'm a...a walk-in," the girl stammered. I sized her up. She did seem like a mess. Uncombed hair that certainly hadn't been touched by water, much less soap, in a few days; stained gray hoodie, mismatched sock...you get the picture. She had a nervous, rabbity look I've seen too many times before.
I sighed and gestured at the chair. "Fine. So spill your issues already." I'm not one of those delicate, "how does that make you feel?" type therapists. Besides, I had actual appointment in ten minutes. With a paying client.
She lay down on the chair. "Well...the other day, my cat died."
So, suck it up, I wanted to say. I restrained myself and gave her a sympathetic smile. "Awww...that's too bad," I said. "I recommend cremation. That way you can put him on the mantel and you'll never be apart. Maybe a nice memorial service, too. Invite all your friends, to see who will still associate with you afterwards."
She gave me a startled look. "Er...but that's not all..."
Finally, we get to the point, I thought. "Continue," I said politely, glancing at my cuckoo clock. I still had five minutes or so...
"Well...my...my boyfriend dumped me...and my friends are all talking behind my back about my Barbie underwear...and my mom is making me get a job and my dad confiscated my cell phone and my teacher told me my book report was off-topic..." She burst into tears. "It's just not fair! I hate my life!"
She blubbered and carried on for quite some time until she noticed that I was staring at her in utter disgust. Then she stopped quite suddenly. "Hey! You're supposed to be making me feel better!"
What are you going to do? Sue me? "Young lady," I said with the greatest dignity I could muster, "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. What do you take me for?"
She sniffled piteously. I recoiled. "A...a therapist, of course! Now make me feel better!"
I flipped up the chair, dumping her on the floor. She squealed.
"No, miss, you've definitely come to the wrong place," I said, still as polite as polite can ever be. "This is an exclusive type of therapy that I practice," I continued, showing her to the door. "It's only for those who suffer from Mental Obsessive Literary Disorder. Ever hear of it?"
She thought so hard her eyes crossed. "Literary...as in, like, books? I've never read an entire book in my life!"
I firmly closed the door in her face. "So it would appear."
I buzzed downstairs to talk to my secretary. "Um, Lydia? Why did you let that bimbo in here?"
"Sorry, ma'am," Lydia sounded embarrassed. "I asked her if she had gotten her disorder from a contemporary work of fiction, you know, because most of the girls you're counseling have it from there? She said yes, so I didn't think anything of it. I guess she thought it was some sort of disease."
"That's fine, Lydia. Just don't let it happen again, okay?"
"Understood, ma'am."
I broke off, rubbing my temples. At least it wasn't as bad as that one girl who thought that Communists were responsible for all these adaptations of Little Red Riding Hood...I consoled myself. I'm going to become a lot more picky about my walk-in's from now on...