Client: You’re in the jungle, baby, you’re gonna die.
Therapist: No.
Client: “Go suck-start a chainsaw”.
Therapist: No.
Therapist: But it’s impossible for you to get close to him without pain.
Client: [sobbing] That’s my type.
Client: Wear green so we accessorize together.
Therapist: No.
Client: Come, o sweet meteor of death, and cleanse this wretched earth.
Therapist: No.
Client: I congratulate them on being an excellent judge of character.
Therapist: No.
Wife: He got drunk and called me fat.
Therapist: Is that true?
Husband: I guess it must be. After all, an elephant never forgets.
Therapist, writing: Savage.
Client: Oh no, who started this mysterious gasoline fire
Therapist: No.
Client: You better check yourself before you wreck yourself, bitch.
Therapist: No.
Client: The universal drinking game. You take a shot whenever you’re not happy.
Therapist: Hold on, let me buy some stock.
Client: An 85. Whoa, that’s like a B, right? I passed! Wow, is this what success feels like? This feels great!
Therapist: That’s a depression test. You need to come with me.
Client: Sounds good. So how long will this treatment take?
Therapist: I’ll ask the questions here.
Client: So there I am, surrounded by orphans clinging to me as the chemical fire rages all around us.
Therapist: No.
Client: Nothing a ritual dismemberment can’t fix.
Therapist: No.
Client: Welcome to the feces festival.
Therapist: I’m using that.
Client: You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.
Therapist: No.
Client, singing: Take me down to the trauma city where the grasses scream and we love self pity.
Therapist: No.
Female client: At least I make the rockin’ world go round.
Therapist: *guitar riff*