~~Group Therapy~~

~~~~2~~~~

Dear Diary,

I hate this. This is stupid. I don't need to do this. This is so pointless. It makes me look like a pansy. This is so gay. Why do I ev

Richie's POV: I throw my "journal" across the room and sigh. Why did my dad make me go? It's so stupid there. Everybody's messed up. I guess that's the point, but I'm okay! Just a little hyperactive, but that's all! I'm so much better than the rest of the losers there. Like that kid who had a panic attack at roll call? And don't even get me started on that Taylor bimbo. Like, who does she think she is? "OOOOHhhhhhhh I have DDEEPRREEESSSSIIOONNNNN because that'll make me SpEciAl!!" Ugh. I lay back in my desk chair, but that only tips it, so I'm quickly on the floor. I groan, rubbing the spot on my back that took the most impact. I see my fallen journal, and consider continuing my self-explanation. Nah. I have a whole week, and no one's reading it. I roll over, pushing myself up from my position on the floor. My glasses fell out of their usual place behind my ears, so I retrieve them and return them to their comforting hold around my head. Walking out of my sanctuary/prison, I call out to my dad.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddddd? I'm calling Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeevvvvvvvvvvvv, okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay?" I hear his distant grunt of approval, and start dialing her number.

*Time skip brought to you by: How Much I Don't Want To Write Out All That Dialogue*

Hanging up, I drag myself downstairs for dinner. At least Bev's not done her journal either. The anxious kid probably is. He seems so organized. Almost too organized, but not quite obsessive. His friend, however, that's another story. He hit me in the stomach with that table! How dare he! People are the worst! I start pushing my food around the plate, thinking about that kid, the little one. What was his name again? Eggbert? Eddie? Yeah, that sounds right. Eddie Spaghetti. I like it. I smile to myself, causing my dad to look at me quizically.

"I take it group was good?" My dad says, obviously trying to make conversation. I relay the events of yesterday's therapy through a mouthful of food, up until the journal. I can't tell him that. He'll definitely ask to see it. The whole reason he sent me there was so I'll be more "open with my feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelings." Hell no. Ever since Mom died, apparently I've been "Reclusive" and "Antisocial." Thanks a lot, therapist. I'm not reclusive. People who are reclusive are psychopaths. I'm no psycho.

"And that's all." I conclude. Jesus Christ. This Thursday can't come soon enough.