My Mental Librarian

Session #1

I just returned from a disastrous date. We met at the library. She wanted to talk about books. I wanted to talk about her breasts. My mind drooled all over itself.

Session # 2

I no longer have any options left. I've got to read people better. Minds are like closed books or dirty windows. They come in different sizes and shapes. Take mine for example. When I look inside, I see a seedy parking lot the size of Rhode Island or an ancient library in a buried city of pornographic images covered by the ash of my lust. The more I look the more it seems filled with irrelevant mental cargo boxes drowning in some kind of marshmallow fluff. What a mess. Things are impossible to retrieve.

Session #3

I made up an imaginary friend. A sort of sexy mental librarian. She's an idealistic graduate student. God only knows what kind. It's certainly not Library Science or Education. I meet with her when I'm bored, at a loss for words. She's funny. Whatever she says usually means something else. She's inclined to criticize, be judgmental and nag. The kind of qualities as unpalatable as raw goat milk in Irish coffee.

She told me I needed to date more. What she really meant was everything was beginning to look to me like a woman's thigh. She told me she was thinking of putting on her mental jogging shorts and tracking some trends. What she really meant was my mind was my most undeveloped feature. I should exercise it more.

She told me I was not long winded enough. What she really meant was my attention span was like a rubber band perennially snapping back to the themes of sex, excuses and money. When I said I think about what I don't have a lot of, she told me it was her job to do the thinking for us both. I guess I've got a wife and didn't know it. Which means I don't need a therapist anymore

Scott Malby

Like Dylan Thomas, Scott Malby believes that an empty library is a terrible bar to great spirits.