pfffft, men!

so how did your week
go, your therapist
asks as you lie
on the couch
staring up
at her diplomas
and dried
bunches of flowers
arranged and held
together with
small strips of
blue ribbon.
not good, you tell
her. everyone
is mad at me.
everyone she says?
yes, everyone.
i hear her take
out a ball of yarn
from somewhere
and start clinking
her knitting needles
together. do tell,
she says. well, you
say, it just seems that
i keep saying the
wrong things at the
wrong time and they
get upset. what do you
mean by they. the women,
the women in my
life. so you have a thing
against women, is that
what i'm hearing.
i hear the needles
clinking harder and
faster together and her
feet  bang against
the floor.. no, i like women,
i really like  most of
them. them, she says,
do you see how you
objectify women, you
treat them horribly and
expect love in return. no
wonder they all hate you.
i didn't say hate, i said
that they are mad and angry
at me. you know what,
she says, i think we're done
here. i've heard enough of
your women talk. don't
call me for two weeks.
now get up and leave.
put the check on the desk
on your way out. pffft,
men, she says.