I can only put up with people complaining for so long. At some point, I just don’t fucking care anymore.

When I started my job as a therapist, I was excited. Being a therapist brings so many benefits, like a high salary, and not having to be around my roommate Mark (who is not allowed within 300 ft of a school). Little did I know, even the beautiful sight of a healthy bank account could not dissuade my temper.

I couldn’t even tell you what my client was talking about. It was something about how he couldn’t find any meaning in life, and that he didn’t know if he didn’t have the capability to love or be loved, and something about if Ratatouille is in the same genre as Pacific Rim because Remy pilots Linguini like a mech一wait一actually I think that was me dozing off. Anyways, if I wanted to be around a sob story nonstop, I would hang out with Mark.

You have to understand, it was a two-for-the-price-of-one day at my favorite burger joint, Sloppy Joe’s Seconds. My client talked about how he felt like half a human, and all I could think about was getting my hands on a half-pound burger. It was made even worse by my knowing that Mark could be chowing down while I was stuck in my office一Sloppy Joe’s wasn’t within 300 ft of a school.

I snapped. “OH MY GOD, I DON’T FUCKING CARE!” The look in my client’s eyes made it clear – I was fucked.

I quickly lost my therapy job, which sucks, both because I now need to seek employment, and also because I see Mark more. Fucking Mark. If I learned any essential, universal life lessons from this incident, it is that sad people are annoying, and I need to choose my roommates better.