A mute!

I woke in a jovial, almost giddy mood, and so took a managerial decision to level off a buoyant shit to the monotone of Stockhausen's Stimmung. I strode to work in a chastened, sentient mood, ready to receive my new referral. Client G. is mute. Client G., moreover, is a blonde girl. While at risk of sounding as if she were pulled from the trailer of a B Movie, I should also confess that she has full, pale lips. She is also fifteen. Oh and what sad, blank eyes. All this is true. By and large, I don't like young people. In a word, I prefer sensibility. The bodies of young women are so greedy and aspirational. All their bits point upward, as if seeking first prize. These are bodies with nothing to say, or give. And so as she sat slumped in the chair, staring at the corner of my desk, I reflected that the fetishization of the young is one of the more heinous of capitalism's great crimes, and in this antagonistic vein decided to pursue my own concerns, rather than chase after hers. I stood up and examined the spines of some first editions. With utmost care, I polished my pipe. First and foremost, whatever catatonic, or trauma symptoms may arise, I understood this as a battle of wills, and one she has no chance of winning. She has not spoken for the last six months, (I have a bet with the G.P who referred her that I will have her talking within six weeks) and in this, our first session, I had no intention of abnegating myself by saying or asking anything so after a long, fruitless period of suggestive movement, I then spent twenty minutes trying to summon an enormous fart from the bottom of my bowels. I will try this technique next time but aware, also, that I have only five weeks left.