D’s friend O wanted for me to see his psycho-therapist and join self-transformation seminars. I walked out on my job raising monies for fucking Mindanao NGOs and occupied a bunkhouse in what should have been a dumpsite to grow crops and an herb garden.
She needs help and she doesn’t know it, his friend O told him. Poets are innately chemically imbalanced, aren’t they?
I told D his friend and his frigging office deserves to be backhoed into the dumpsite of history, that’s where he rightly belongs. D said I should see a psycho-therapist I have delusions about artisthood and writerhood.
