Meet your new therapist -- you're looking at it.
It's 2018, and you're not feeling your best. Yesterday, on the phone with Comcast, you forgot your social security number, and had to call your mom to get it. She grew concerned. Your nightstand is full of half-finished novels, because it's easier to start fresh than to keep track of where you left off. And the fatigue -- last Thursday, you slept clear through your alarm, until Agnes in 8J pounded on your ceiling with a basketball. You've been here before; you know you're depressed. And you know what you have to do.
You fire up your PC and dig out your biomonitor wrist strap. "Welcome back, kiddo," Regina, your therapist avatar, greets you. Regina has shiny red hair and glasses, and the Australian accent of a Bond girl. "Let's catch up."
As you launch into your compressed narrative -- the new job, the breakup, the fight with your brother -- and Regina nods in sympathy, you recall the days of Dr. Fitzsimmons' brick and mortar on 5th and 97th, when you'd have spent half the session (roughly $150.00) "updating the Fitz." It felt good at the time, but did it actually achieve anything? The Fitzman was hardly Freudian -- he was as cognitive as they come, with scales and homework and all -- and even so all that schmoozing required so much time. And, as he loved to remind you, he was one of the few psychiatrists left who even talked to his patients anymore. Just a day after the session, the sharing glow would wear off, and you'd have difficulty recalling what you had discussed.