Ice Cream Makes Everything Better
It was hard getting past our fifth group therapist’s looks. Not because she was some drop-dead gorgeous model; no, quite the opposite. She looked like Nanny McPhee and dressed like Miss Frizzle.
Our therapists were often tricked into their positions with a promised, substantial salary. It only took them a week to find out they’d been gypped and were subject to government pay lower than a poor community’s teacher’s salary. If that didn’t work, there was always David to scare them off. I learned
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