Dear Dr. Morgenstern,
I believe that over these past 6 months, I have proven my mental stability, social adaptability and feel that I no longer pose a threat to the woodland creatures of Yellowstone National Park. As I've demonstrated in our private and group sessions, I do not feel the least bit attracted to Elk, Moose, or Grizzly Bears anymore, and though, admittedly, I still have a slight issue with Mountain Goats, I believe that simply staying away from the park solves that problem. (It's their horns really that still get me, with the ability to grab onto them and all). If you could see your way clear to releasing me from this institution, I promise to enroll in whatever 12 step recovery program you advise, provided I'm still allowed to live in Jackson Hole. Something about the name of that town draws me to her. In any case, I appreciate your consideration on this matter and wanted to thank you as well for allowing me to spend time with your Golden Retriever, Muffy. I think the two of you have really helped me see the error of my ways.
Yours in Health,
Throckmorton P. Honeypot
Dear Dr. Thicky Pants,
Nice jacket. What, do you miss the days of working at Pizza Hut so much that you needed a permanent name tag sewn onto your uniform? And you call me unstable. I hate my group, especially that feckless git who calls himself Skoob and always takes over the discussions. "My Johnson is too big, I have too much money, The ladies won't leave me alone", on and on, the whining never stops. Put me in another group or I'll decorate my walls with another mural of the Battle of Bunker Hill, drawn with the only soft and spreadable substance I can produce on my own. Breathe deep and enjoy.
Shut the Front Door,
Dear Dr. Morginshternumenumskison,
You may not remember me, but I am the little man who enjoys wearing overcoats and floppy hats. Despite your recommendation for several months in solitary confinement, I have not broken down to your will. My resolve is stronger than ever, and I will never take off that hat and coat. I don't care if it's the hottest day of the year and a cool breeze would feel like heaven against my bare skin, my outerwear is an integral part of my being. I don't care if you ever release me from this 5 x 5 dark cell. Wait a minute, check that. Damn it, I hate writing in pen. Listen. Just forget about that last part. I promise to be good and we can talk about maybe taking off the hat for a moment, perhaps every other day, not ending in "Y". Maybe I could advise other patients on the benefits and practical uses of water repellent clothing. Perhaps I could do some sort of work on behalf of the institution as a show of good faith? Please? Please get me out of here? Maybe if I agreed to trade coats for a few moments. I noticed that yours has a name tag. Didn't you used to work at Pizza Hut?
Pleading for Light,
Dear Dr. WhateverYourNameIs
I actually like it here. While you seem to receive hundreds of letters asking you to release this nut bar, or that loony tune, I prefer to stay here in the sanctity of my own little room. I have a nice window, and a decent bed. I get three squares a day, although I have to tell you that I don't know how anyone can consider that orange mush you serve on Tuesdays, I think you refer to it as macaroni and cheese, is really anything other than starchy brick mortar. I pay no taxes, and don't have to worry about income. I don't have to buy clothing; in fact I quite like walking around all day, every day in grey pajamas. This is a pretty decent facility now that the state regulates living conditions, I guess I just wanted to say "thank you" for all that you've done for me. What? Hold on, there's a knock at my door.
"Yes? No, I didn't get any letter. What letter? What do you mean today? Nobody told me. I'm still sick damn it, I can't leave! I need help, I need Dr. Whatever His Name Is. Fine then. Get out and let me pack in peace."
You bastard. See if I ever recommend your services to any of my friends. EVER!
Dear Dr. Freaky Nebbish,
Just because I'm still a sexually active, mature woman who enjoys the touch of men, does not mean that; A: I'm sick and belong in this dump, or B: That I'm interested in you.
My group sessions are supposed to allow me a forum to vent my frustrations about my bottomless needs, vast as they may be, without having you constantly staring 6 inches below the bottom of my chin. Try looking at my devilishly alluring eyes instead for a change, you perv. I can't help the fact that I've worn out most men, or that I feel the need to reach a climax at least 10 times a day, that doesn't make me a sex addict, nor does it make me insane. When you decided to cut my supply of fresh double "A" batteries, that became the last straw. Actually, when you discharged my f*<% buddy, Victor, THAT was the last straw. Without the ability to fill my needs through other methods, I find that I will now need to spend extra time in the shower each day where the slow pulse of hot water will be my only relief. Enjoy the hot water bills.
Oh, and I'll be unbuttoning my blouse just for our upcoming sessions. Go ahead and stare, you controlling little nub of a man, but remember in case you get any ideas, I also hold a Muay Thai black belt and can choke your ass out in about 7 seconds.
Who's the bitch now?