100 Days Project

Ben: 100 Writings / 100 Opening Guitar Hooks

various, random creative expressions / writings, inspired partially by 100 popular songs (songs that somewhat begin with a leading hook of a guitar.)

Day 40:

“Loser” (1993) by Beck

"Loser" (1993) by Beck


Monday, 9am. Comes in ten minutes late as usual: “sorry Doc I dropped off the kids but was stuck in a jam up on Hobson some dickhead took the wrong turn off and smashed into a truck luckily he survived as I gawked out the window I noticed but crikey the idiot could’ve known to take the turn off into Ponsonby instead of wasting everyone’s time on the worst part of the week I can’t believe some moron like that would want to do that to everyone has that idiot any idea. So how are you?”

Prescription: Vistaril, 2 milligrams daily; Xanax, 3 milligrams weekly; and a better route to work.


Monday, 2pm. Did I buy a new box of tissues?: “I saw some ants (sniff) and they were just working (sniff), life working, doing their part (sniff) for their Queen (sniff) unbridled loyalty, I don’t know what it was about them, but it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw (sniff).”

Prescription: Desyrel, 1 milligram daily; and a hug.


Tuesday, 10am. I used to ask one of my colleagues to wait outside for me, just in case: “I’m feeling better, Doc, I’m feeling better. Though there are times are just wanna knock some cunts out. This cunt was looking at me for no reason. Might be because of the tattoos. I was gonna go straight up to him and pummel his eyes into head. But then I counted to twenty. And I when I opened my eyes, I realised he could’ve only been 70 years old, 75. I think I’m really doing better, Doc. Thanks, Doc.”

Prescription: cancellation of Valium treatment until further notice. Let’s see.


Tuesday, 3pm. Hide the cushions!: “I think it’s a mess. Everything I see. I’m addicted. I can’t help myself. I gave a tissue to a stranger on the bus to clean the dust of his iPhone. I saw it from a mile away. It was annoying me. It needed to be clean. Even now! I find your couch horrible to sit on. How often do you to clean this?”

Prescription: Zoloft, 3 milligrams weekly; Note to self: Vacuum couch.


Wednesday, 12pm. Lunch with my daughter: “Tell me what losers came in today”, “Shut up.”


Wednesday, 2pm. She’s come in with her boyfriend: “He’s been really supportive. Without him I don’t think I could’ve done this. He’s been the most patient when I’ve been, only been, the most horrible. He’s a beautiful man and I love him so much. I love you, Pumpkin.” “I love you too, Honeybunny.”

Prescription: Risperdal, 1 milligram weekly; Seroquel, 2 milligram weekly; this is nice.


Thursday, 11am. My fourteenth session with this client: “y’know, you’re very attractive. I dreamt about you the other night. Kissing you. Walking with you. I’d, like, hop on you right now. Do you like me?!”

Prescription: Effexor XR, 2 milligrams weekly; this phase will pass, it always does.


Thursday, 1pm. New Client: “G’Day, Doc – I can’t sleep”

Prescription: Buspar, 2 millgrams nightly; and a good pillow.


Thursday, 3pm. Trying to quit: “it’s really hard, Doc. Harder than I thought it’d be. I want one right now! Y’gotta help me. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Prescription: Bupropion, 2 milligrams weekly; what a disgusting habit.


Friday, 10am. Finds it difficult to express love: “I’ve been suppressing it down, down, down. It’s difficult, Doc. I guess, that’s what it means to be a man. At least, in my house. My father never showed any fuckin’ form of appreciation or love. That motherfucker. And he’s still doing it to me now. My girlfriend brought my mum a present – a fuckin’, um, what’s that, coffee frother or something. She knew my mother would love it. She put a little pink bowtie on it and shit. But when we walked in the house, I was the one holding the present. Dad took one look at me, with my the pink ribbon and said, “what are you, a fag?” I dropped the present and walked out the fuckin’ door. Suppressing it right down, down. I wanted to see the look on my Mum’s face, but I couldn’t. Cause my Dad taught me never to show any form of fuckin’ love – that sonofabitch. Now, I always got have this urge to push it down. I’d laugh at Schindler’s List, because I gotta show no form of appreciation. I’d kick a fucking puppy, right in between its fuckin’ eyes, because I gotta show no form of appreciation. This ball of hate in my chest, Doc, is gonna kill me.

Prescription: Celexa, 2 milligrams daily; Lexapro, 2 milligrams weekly. Should kill his father.


Friday, 12pm. Mike’s committed suicide twice: “want d’ya wanna hear? You’ve heard me a thousand times. Are you fucking listening? I’ve done everything you’ve wanted to do. I swallow ya fucking pills like you’ve wanted me to do. And I still feel like shit. Ha. What are ya gonna do, when I do it again? Do you even fucking care?! Are you here?! Fuck you”

Prescription: Prozac, 5 milligrams daily. I don’t know what else I can do with Mike.


Friday, 4pm. My turn: “After being in this vocation for almost seven years, I don’t know if I’m doing a good enough job. Maybe I’m tired of it. I can’t say I’m trying my best. I even acknowledge when we have successes, but don’t really care ...care like I used to.”

Prescription: He gives me Adderall XR; daily dosage. My attention to my job is fading.