I sat in the car tonight with Luke as he ate his dinner (after driving with morons through the rain and then finding no reasonable parking spaces available, thank you very much, Ann Lamott fans) and I ranted. I squinted my lovely eyes shut and wrinkled my cute little nose and I went off Cartman style, as though Andy were sitting there instead of Luke. I have to let it out somehow or I�m just going to retch bile all over Andy the next time he really gets on me and it will be ugly. Words of mine have been known to leave people cowering and Andy, I think, is a bit too fragile to really take vitriol of that magnitude. I know he�s overworked and overschooled and generally overscheduled, but he got himself into this mess, all in his never ending quest for more money. Yes, some of said money feeds me at times, but I�m not a therapist! I do not have a psych degree and am not state or nationally certified. If I wanted to be a therapist, you can bet your possum fur nipple warmers that I would not be therapizing in exchange for chicken enchiladas. Chances are, if I did it on a professional basis, I would not be living in a 1-bedroom apartment and just scraping by from month to month. I would probably own a house or be in the process of hunting for one and I wouldn�t be driving a hand me down jalopy that sounds like there�s an elephant sitting on the axle when I turn at more than 4 miles per hour.