Visited a hypnotherapist this afternoon to help with my nose-picking problem. After he failed three times to put me under I felt sorry for the poor fellow and made like the fourth try worked.
I suppose I should have spoken up when he started going through my pockets, but it would have been embarrassing to reveal my little ruse. A similar sense of delicacy prevented me from protesting as he fondled my inner thighs beyond shifting slightly and murmuring, “Stop it, Sheila!”
Fortunately there are only eleven sessions left. I don’t plan to schedule any more, and starting next time I certainly intend to carry less cash on me, and to wear thicker trousers.
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