I'm Savin' Up For Some Therapy!

My friend and former roommate Brent bought me this little piggy bank awhile back:

Pyromaniac Patsy here should probably go
ahead and ask her parents for therapy-money

I think he bought it for me because when we lived together, he used to do things like tuck creepy faceless mannequins into my bed (WEARING MY CLOTHES) and carefully place a life-sized Yoda for me to find when I stepped naked into the shower (THE LITTLE PERV HAD HIS HANDS OUTSTRETCHED REACHING FOR ME). I'm pretty sure his entire goal as my roommate was to get me to scream. And then when we were no longer living together, and he was no longer constantly distracted by waiting to hear me wail, he had time to reflect and felt bad and bought me this as some sort of strange apology.

Anyway. I'm pretty much over the scarring episodes of mannequins and Jedi masters taking me by surprise. But I think it's time to start dropping pennies into the little yellow tin again, because W-WORD nightmares have started jolting me from my slumber (think The Actor's Nightmare, but, like, instead of not knowing your lines, you're getting left at the aisle, or you forgot to invite your best friend to the big day, or you yourself sleep through the whole damn thing). I can tell you why the nightmares have begun. It's because venue-selection needs to happen, like, now. And we should probably decide on our wedding party members. And get some engagement photos taken, and send out save-the-dates. And W-WORD planning aside, I'm behind on a major writing project, swamped with client work, and starting to foresee mini-panic attacks.

Therapy's expensive, though. So now that I'm back in town (did I mention I've also crossed state lines pretty much every other week for the past three months?) I'm gonna make a bigger effort to vent here, frequently. As needed. So that the writing can be my therapy. And the pennies can go toward paying for things like rings. A venue. Food. Photos. Invitations. Dress.

And, like, paper bags to breathe into...