Disclaimer: I own nothing, ever, it's like a rule in my life.

My last shrink said the drugs wouldn't help anyone who didn't really want to help themselves. I popped them anyways. May not help, but sure felt good after the third of fifth, or however many. What did shrinks know anyways; always handing over judgment. It's always easy for them, going home to their 2.5 kids, one dog, one cat, and spouse. You can see my dilemma when I tell you that seeing one of these crackpots, twice a week, happens to be part of my parole.

I didn't really do anything, at least anything to warrant such a punishment. Well, I mean, no one got hurt. So what if it was my third, or so, time being caught with some sort of illegal substance, but who makes this stuff illegal anyways? The poor, who can't afford it, or people who are too scared to have a good time – that's who. There's nothing wrong with me. I don't get addicted, not to anything; I'm way too stubborn for shit like that. My only problem is having too much fun, and I really don't think that's much of a problem at all.

I pick up a tabloid, from a street vendor, as I trek the two or so miles to my newest guru of self-fulfillment. At least the press appreciates my antics, even if no one else does. The tabloids love me, and I love them back. The headline reads, "Rocker Princess Ashley Davies: Getting off too Easy?" I laugh, almost manically at the double interpretation of the words. Never in my life have I gotten off easy.

I roll my eyes when a group of teenage males recognize me, even in my hoodie, messy hair and sunglasses. Well, I guess it isn't there fault, I'm hard to miss. I've never had a problem standing out in a crowd. Well, it could be that, or the fact that I am practically wearing a sign that says celebrity in hiding. Why do we all wear the same stuff anyways? They follow close behind me, and I don't have to turn around to know each of their cells are open, either taking pictures or texting. I've done this dog and pony show one too many times to even be slightly put off.

Damn my love of physical exercise, or I'd been there by now, and not ten minutes late. Not that I'm not accustomed to being reasonably late to things, those things weren't meetings with someone who controls if I go to prison or not, and let's face it – I'd last two hours in prison before I became someone's bitch or worse, and I'm no one's bitch: never have been, never will be. Whose idea was it, anyways, to put my fate in some loony that hides their own problem in solving other people's problems? Yeah, who's the shrink now? Ignorant Judge Brown with his, "if she complains, that's it for you," bullshit.

Only twenty-one minutes late, it could be much worse. The office happens to be on the eleventh floor of some annoyingly large building. They should stop docking me once I enter the building, then I'd only be fifteen minutes late – much more impressive than twenty-one.

The receptionist, some old-bag, old-bag receptionists seem to be a requirement at these kinds of places, instructs me to take a seat. White walls, two black leather couches, glass coffee table in the middle, modern art on the walls, oh yeah, I've seen this scene before, one too many times. Yep, just as I thought, no good magazines. I sigh heavily, getting quite the look from the hundred-year old, or so, old woman.

"Hey, you know, my time is money. We're already twenty-six minutes into this session. Where is this Doctor Carson, or whatever?" It's true. My time is money, lots of it, and I give it to these ridiculous, so-called doctors for free. What a shame.

The woman's glare intensifies; hey, I'm use to it. "Dr. Carlin," she stresses the doctor's name, like it matters, "figured you'd be at least thirty minutes late, so she went to grab us some coffee."

What the fuck, I've never met the woman and she's already making assumptions. I roll my eyes, a habit of mine. "Isn't it a little rude to go and stereotype people – especially with her career, and all. And coffee? Isn't that your job?"

The woman ignores the comment and looks down to her paper, "You were twenty minutes late." Technically twenty-one, but who am I to argue with my elders. Scratch that, ridiculously ugly modern art on the wall

The obnoxiously squeaky door opens, and I don't bother to look away from the train wreck of art on the walls. I listen as the doctor gives her receptionist the coffee, and as they converse in whispers, that I can't even hear, and I pride myself in my ability of eavesdropping.

I expect a sugary-sweet, cavity creating, voice. Needless to say, shock probably played at my face when I get, "You ready?" in a rather apathetic tone. "I took the liberty of starting our session a minute ago, so it just so happens you're not late at all."

Can she do that? She can't do that. I look towards the woman for the first time, but all I can see is a rather thin frame with blond hair, entering the office door. What the fuck?