My father would take me to see a counselor and I would tell him what he wanted to hear. It always boiled down to the same thing. “My mother, blah, b...ah, blah. My father, blah, blah, blah. Can’t seem to get out of bed. Having trouble concentrating. No, I have no thoughts of self-harm. Blah, blah, blah.”There’d be a quick and easy diagnosis, usually something about an attachment disorder and then a scrip for Celexa or Lexapro. Pretty soon I’d be right as rain. I stopped going when I was 18 and. Straining (it wasn't like he was in amazing condition, but this was worth it) he picked her up in his arms, and carried her to the bedroom while she rained kisses over his face and ears. Somehow, the strain barely registered on his consciousness, and by the time he reached the bedroom he felt like he could carry her to Timbuktu if that was the only place he could get his cock into her. He half lowered, half dropped her onto the bed in his haste to drop his mouth to the fleshy treasures that. More

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