My therapist told me to leave town.

Seriously.

Yes, I’m undergoing psychoanalysis. I’m a writer. It’s in the manual.

She suggested Italy. She’s a doctor, lives in Brentwood and has a pool. I’m a writer. I live in an apartment, and I can’t even play pool. Let’s just say we have budgeting differences.

I settled on New York primarily because I didn’t want to have to rent a car and then pull over to the side of the road to set my stack of AAA maps on fire after not being able to find my freeway exit for three hours. Also I can meet with my agent and call it a business trip. Take that IRS.

I wrote to tell her I was coming. She wrote back with this (used entirely without her permission):

“btw- i love that your therapist told you to leave town. I like to picture her saying this gently and then the camera pans to you and you are seated, wearing a coconut bra, bolero pants, your swim goggles and one clown shoe.”

In my defense, it was a cowboy boot.

Oh, and I’m staying at the Algonquin. “Hello, Ms. Parker. Care to dance?”