Please Ignore the Thing on my Neck

           Dear diary,
           I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering about the point of it all. Why do I even do it? Money? Prestige? What a laugh. They took my movie proposal and threw it in my face. Said they wouldn’t touch “It, the Sock Monkey.” Seven months’ work down the drain. Stephen King can kiss my—
           What was that? Thought I heard a noise. What’s the saying? It’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you? Something like that.
           Speaking of paranoia, I lost another therapist yesterday. He saw the thing on my neck. I told him to ignore it, then started to spill out my troubling thoughts and feelings, but he stopped my rantings midsentence. Said he couldn’t see me with that thing on my neck. I told him, again, to ignore it. I started again, but he called security. The security woman threw me to the street. Literally.
           My thought was, Good, maybe it will jar that thing off my neck. With this in mind, I asked her to dinner. She sniffed and walked away with nary a look back.
           I came home, saw that the thing was still on my neck. Ces’t la vie, eh?
           There’s a new therapist in town, hasn’t heard of me yet. I’ll see about an appointment in the morning. 
                                                                       ***
           Dear diary,
           Good news and bad news today. I was calling the new therapist when I happened by a mirror. The thing was gone! And, to top that off, this therapist is so new in town that she could see me tomorrow. I hope I don’t get a thing on my neck before then.
           Which makes me wonder, where do those things go when they fall off? I never see them lying around the house. Do they scurry under the refrigerator when the lights come on? I joke a lot more when I don’t have a thing on my neck.
           The bad news, and back to my comment on paranoia. I was followed today. They’re always driving Coopers. It was a gold Cooper this time. A two-door. I tried what my last therapist told me; I tried to ignore it. Called it coincidence and shook my head.
           Of course, the last therapist wouldn’t ignore the thing on my neck.
           Anyway, I ignored it. I mean, not everyone that drives a Cooper is out to get me, right? I turned up NPR full volume when it changed lanes and pulled next to my car. Thirty-seven button eyes pointed straight at me. Either one of them was missing an eye, or—and this is upsetting—one was winking.
           It sped off on the green light. In the morning, I’ll check my street surveillance cameras, but they don’t usually come back. Not in the same car, anyway. Smart little buggers.
           The Coalition for Sock Monkey Rights wrote to me today. Told me my New Yorker story, “A Sock Monkey Flew Over the Coocoo’s Nest,” was in bad taste. I wrote back, ‘A man’s gotta eat!’ 
           Taking a low-dosage sedative tonight. I want to be well rested for my appointment in the morning.
                                                                                   ***
           The ninja became one with her surroundings. Her target was writing in some sort of journal. She avoided looking at the light. Let the poor fool be night-blinded. She made minimal sound with her movements. Creeping cloth on cloth, nearly silent.
           The fool took a pill, washed it down with warm milk, and turned off the light. She was still. A statue. Only one chance at this. Then she struck! She aimed for the spot between C3 and C4. Gotcha, you son of…
                                                                                   ***
           Dear diary,
           I went to my ten o’clock session. She was staring at me, but I put out my hand and shook. I sat down. The chair was one of those leather looking vinyl chairs. “No couch?” I asked.
           She sat there, mouth all agape. I honestly didn’t know what to think.
           Then, I realized. I sighed mightily. “Please ignore the thing on my neck,” I said. I can’t believe I didn’t look in the mirror this morning.
           I’ve called a therapist two towns over….
                                                                                   The End