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That my cackling preparations this Friday night are a ridiculous, clownish waste of time and intelligence is likely a surety. The odds of anything along these lines opening a meaningful dialogue, prying out something, anything revealing, seem unpromising doesn't it? Jason's psychiatrist would far prefer I drag him kicking and screaming to Weight Watchers, where he will be surrounded with nurturing and supportive professionals unlike myself. (Sorry, Doc, if I seem to be choosing my battles in the most absurd possible way.) But for this Friday night I, at least, sense a shot here.

What other bizarre lengths might I be willing to go to? I am open to suggestions. And I'm still maneuvering Jason out the door to Weight Watchers with yet another Machiavellian scheme to do so. I have the appointment. I am also taking him to Controversial Bookstore to purchase a crystal in which to channel malevolent spirit energy from his cortex.

On another page of my diary I have been working on the phrasing of a question for professionals. Something like: What is the rate of success with this disorder when treated conventionally, and what is the success rate when it is treated not at all or with, say, the entrails of crows?

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