2002-11-24 at 8:04 p.m.

My final recital is in less than two days.

This is most consternating.

(It has occurred to me that this is the exact same situation I was in when I began this diary, five months ago. Five months, and I've only gone all angsty once. That has to be some sort of Diaryland record.)

As you may have noticed, the growing proximity of my recital is causing me to go a little bit kooky- well, kookier than usual, anyway. Because of this, I decided it was time for a session with my analyst.

Or, rather, 'My Analyst�'

'My Analyst�' is rather different to your usual analyst. It's a magic eight ball.

An analytical magic eight ball.

I bought it at one of those El Cheapo shops full of defective merchandise. (I was also sorely tempted to purchase a plastic recorder being touted as a 'Happy Flute'. Can you imagine it?

Father- 'Susie, what are you doing in there?'

Daughter- 'Just blowing Timmy's Happy Flute, daddy'.)

You tell 'My Analyst�' all your neurotic thoughts, twisted dreams, and goat-related sexual fantasies, and 'My Analyst�' dispenses thoughtful, helpful advice.

Now, for your entertainment and psychotheraputic health, I will engage in a live session (well, live for me, not for you, obviously) with 'My Analyst�'.

I'm getting a little nervous about my recital on Tuesday. I know I'm pretty well prepared, but I still worry about forgetting the music, or making mistakes, or showing up naked...

Yes, naked! I almost did that, once. I'd been in a bit of a rush that morning, and in the haste of leaving, I forgot to dress! If it hadn't been for the riotous laughter of those construction workers on the way there...

About what? My recital? Or my shameful nudity?

The naked thing? Pretty embarassed, to be honest. And fairly cold, since it was the middle of winter.

That's probably not a good idea. It needs to go potty.

Yes, that's probably a good idea. What should I talk about now? My fear of red ballpoint pens? My sexual fantasies about Danny DeVito? My delusions of granduer? My delusions of delusions of granduer?

Oh, sure, that's easy for you to say. You don't wake up every night screaming 'The eggbeaters! The eggbeaters! Oh, the humanity!' *sniff* Can I borrow one of those tissues? Thanks.

Okay, you really want to know? Well, there was a rather traumatic occasion when I was three. While reaching for a biscuit, I accidentally pulled the cutlery drawer down on my head. Oh, the horror! Whisks and ladles rained down all around me. I was *sob* struck on the head by an eggbeater... My parents had to get it surgically removed from my cranium. Even now, when I hear that tinny whisking sound... *sniff*

I think that, maybe, that's why I've been blaming everything on eggbeaters lately. Though, they are evil.

Oh, I am not.

La la la la la la la I'm not listening! la la la la...

Mum? What can I say about Mum? That won't get read here by a member of my family and then used against me at a later date?

Bob. I'm the personality that resides in Michelle's lower neocortex. I just wanted to make sure Michelle was taping 'Friends'. Sorry, I'll put Michelle back on now hey, what just happened?

Is crystal meth a med?

I made a breakthrough?

That explains the hole in my wall.

Only with drool.

Damp. And faintly sticky.

That's a good policy, especially since I'm a person and you're an inanimate plastic ball. That could really cause a lot of problems along the track. That said, with the right lubrication...

Wow! Thank you, 'My Analyst�'! I feel much more mentally balanced and centered!

Got any psychoses? Can't stop burning things? Think John Stamos is the most talented man alive? Consult 'My Analyst�', free of charge! Simply leave me a note, or send me an email with your problem. I will consult with 'My Analyst�', and get back to you. Mental health is a gift for all, and I'm definitely hogging more than my fair share if it.

La la la la la I can't hear you! la la la la la...