When I was little I had two imaginary playmates. Their names were Nancy and Sluggo, because they were actually two characters from a comic strip by the same name. Don’t ask me where I came up with this, as I was not reading at age two. I can only guess that my parents commented on the comics and showed me the pictures.

So here’s my question: if imaginary playmates are perfectly normal for children, what about an adult having an imaginary therapist?

Now before you start looking up 800 numbers for the nearest guys in white coats, let me explain. Other than the little voices inside my head, I am a perfectly normal human being — honest, I really am. (Over my shoulder “Shh! I’m busy now. Go away.”)

Now psychotherapists charge an exorbitant amount of money. They charge more per hour than I earn per day as a substitute teacher. So my thinking is, why not avail myself of an imaginary therapist? It won’t cost anything and I’m already talking to myself anyway. But I don’t answer myself. Too often. (”All right. I’m almost finished. Wait!”)

Sorry about that. It’s my therapist. She’s anxious to get started with our session. Uh-uh-uh. No fair looking up toll free numbers for the local funny farm. They don’t exist. They’re just in your mind…