When business is poor, clients’ scheduling is anemic, I will become very angry, bleak, nihilistic, and immature. Such an instant descent from my natural serenity, some idiots would call “bipolar.” (See?) I burn inside at the manager who directs the flow of Intakes, assuming a conspiracy to ditch me, before which I am completely impotent because she is so subtle about it. I seethe at clients with the cowardice and mendacious laziness to cancel their appointments. And most of all, I roil with fury at the other counselors whose doors are shut one hour after the other: Their clients keep trouping in like a carnival parade of middle-aged meds-benumbed sheep, of teenage girly gossip and angst. These counselors, in my mind, are shallow Dear Abby blinky-eyed fluffs who, in graduate school, misread the definition of “psychotherapy” and thought it meant having casual lite conversations about mundane or brand-name problems, and suggesting different, homey ways of looking at things. In other words, giving their clients sweets ‘n’ empathy. Of course they keep coming back!