I have fallen head-over-heels in love with a middle-aged psychotherapist called Blossom. She smells of apricots and antiseptic cream.
Every week I visit Blossom in her whitewashed room filled with joy. And every week she greets me with an optimistic smile that instantly lifts my spirit. She is a marvelous person. And our meetings are without a doubt the highlight of my week.
But today, Blossom didn't greet me in her usual manner and just said I was no longer mental and so she had decided to discharge me.
'But can't I just pretend I'm still mental?' I sobbed.
'No' said Blossom, in a tone I hadn't heard before, 'That would be totally unethical'.
And with that, my case was closed, and I was left to face the cruelness of life on my own once more.