Welcome to the ten Minute Storyteller. That's me Bill Simpson, your host, narrator, and author. We hear at the ten minute Storyteller endeavor to entertain you with tall tales or rendered swiftly and with the utmost empathy. We pledge to pack as much entertainment, emotion, and exploration into the human condition as ten minutes will permit many novels on steroids. This week we meet Tad. After years of talk therapy, Tad finally has a breakthrough. He finally spits out the truth, finally utters the unutterable. But is his shrink listening or has his shrink checked out of the game, consumed as he is by his own angsts and anxieties, his own dreams and desires. Shrunk asks those old Socratic questions, Do our fellow humans hear a word we say? Or does all the gibberish just fall on deaf ears? Was it me? Wonders a giant cosmic joke to allow humans to communicate with all these silly little utterances that spill from our lips. Shrunk. Near the middle of his one hundred and thirty seventh session, Tad finally says something true for the first one hundred and thirty six sessions. He lied through his teeth, blamed his insecurities and angst on his mother and father, on teacher and bosses, on his wife and his in laws. He verbally battered and belittled them all in an effort to dye me the truth. Almost two and a half years now, in the chair, one sometimes two sessions a week, usually after work, when he should have been attending his son's soccer game or his daughter's basketball game, maybe helping his wife with the shopping and the cleaning. But no, not Tad. He's too caught up in his own head, his own twisted thoughts, the id, the ego, and the superego, dreams and reality. It's the same dream, doc, every night, the same dream, three and four times a night, always the same. It never varies for years, decades. Hmmm, says the shrink, distracted, as always tell me about this dream. The shrink has been sitting in this room for twenty three years, listening to people talk about their troubles. He makes large amounts of money listening to people talk about themselves. In the early days, those years of training fresh in his head, he used to listen intently and try his darnedest to make sense of their inner turmoils and psychological demons. But right around year seven he realized his patience, who he secretly refers to as clients, really didn't want his opinion. They just wanted him to listen, not really even him anyone. They wanted one hour, well actually fifty five minutes to sit there or lie there and bitch and moan and whine and complain without anyone interrupting. They wanted to talk, talk, talk, talk, talk about themselves, God damn it, and they were willing to pay serious dough for the privilege. So now, for the past sixteen years, doctor Smidge has mostly sat in his comfy leather swivel chair, well oiled so as not to squeak, and listens, well, half listens, or maybe a little less than half. Mostly now he thinks about his own problems and his own desires. Like that college girl who started coming in a few months ago. Oh, Christ, how he would like to have a go at her. But well, he's been that route. The doctor patient relationship. What a fucking mess, and for what a guilty roll in the hay in some overpriced midtown hotel. The divorce cost him a fortune, and now his daughter a bevy of problems, all of them conjured up in her head. A thousand times he's told her chest relax, kid, enjoy life. Don't take it so damn seriously. It involves my brother, says Tad. The dream my brother's in it every time. It starts out with us running around the house, playing, having fun, enjoying each other. The last couple years, since the isolation and uncertainty of COVID drove everyone insane, Smidge has been inundated with business. He must get fifty calls a day from people desperate for his help. Before COVID, he was charging one hundred and thirty dollars per session. That jumped to one hundred and seventy five dollars supply and demand. Now he's up to two hundred and ten dollars. And still they keep calling men, women, kids, college kids, high school kids out the wazoo, even middle school kids, an age group hete never treated before. Now they're coming in and telling him they want to kill themselves. He bought a bigger house, bought a s class Benz that costs more than the first house. He and his first wife bought twenty five years ago. For his fiftieth birthday, he bought himself a week at the Ritz in Paris. Didn't take his second wife, told her he was going on a hiking trip with his buddies through the Swiss Alps. Took his mistress to the Ritz, remembering that one night when they were both high on coke and screwing like teenagers. Smidge lets out a little moan of delight, but he quickly covers the moan with a subtle throat clearing and says, hmm, yes, I see, then continues tad. Then the fun ends, and he snaps his finger just like that, just ends. And no matter how many times I have the dream, I never know why the fun ends, but it does. And my brother's angry. He's really really angry. Smidge, back from his Parisian reverie, nods and takes a quick look at the strategically placed clock just over the patience the clients left shoulder, six point thirty nine, sixteen minutes to go. Smidge tells himself to focus, to pay attention to this guy's problems. His ego reminds him this guy is paying good money, good money to sit here, this evening, and the least the shrink can do is pay attention this even while his ID travels back to the Ritz while wondering how scrumptious that co ed would look lying here, bare ass naked on his couch, all while his super ego tries to balance his moral obligations where his primeval needs and desires. And that's that's when his patient is client says in the dream. In the dream, my brother gets angry. My brother gets really angry, gets crazy, and like a second later, I'm flat out on the floor and he's on top of me. And he has a pillow, a pillow from the sofa, not a pillow like you sleep with, but this embroidered pillow roses, I think embroidered red roses. And he's pressing the pillow into my face, really grinding it in and holding it there and pushing and pushing. I can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe can't make a sound. Man, I can't move. All his weight is on top of me, holding me down, me kicking my legs, but the pillow pushing hard against my face. I can't breathe can't breathe until I pass out. The room falls quiet until the faint sound of seconds ticking off the little clock on the shelf over the patient's the clients left shoulder shatters the silence, and then a few seconds later, Smidge, out of character, says, who that's some dream, dude. But but that's the thing, Doc, what's the thing? It's not a dream? I mean, I mean, it is a dream, a dream I have several times every night, and I've had for twenty years. But it's more than a dream. It's what. It's what really happened.

Welcome to the ten Minute Storyteller. That's me Bill Simpson, your host, narrator, and author. We hear at the ten minute Storyteller endeavor to entertain you with tall tales or rendered swiftly and with the utmost empathy. We pledge to pack as much entertainment, emotion, and exploration into the human condition as ten minutes will permit many novels on steroids. This week we meet Tad. After years of talk therapy, Tad finally has a breakthrough. He finally spits out the truth, finally utters the unutterable. But is his shrink listening or has his shrink checked out of the game, consumed as he is by his own angsts and anxieties, his own dreams and desires. Shrunk asks those old Socratic questions, Do our fellow humans hear a word we say? Or does all the gibberish just fall on deaf ears? Was it me? Wonders a giant cosmic joke to allow humans to communicate with all these silly little utterances that spill from our lips. Shrunk. Near the middle of his one hundred and thirty seventh session, Tad finally says something true for the first one hundred and thirty six sessions. He lied through his teeth, blamed his insecurities and angst on his mother and father, on teacher and bosses, on his wife and his in laws. He verbally battered and belittled them all in an effort to dye me the truth. Almost two and a half years now, in the chair, one sometimes two sessions a week, usually after work, when he should have been attending his son's soccer game or his daughter's basketball game, maybe helping his wife with the shopping and the cleaning. But no, not Tad. He's too caught up in his own head, his own twisted thoughts, the id, the ego, and the superego, dreams and reality. It's the same dream, doc, every night, the same dream, three and four times a night, always the same. It never varies for years, decades. Hmmm, says the shrink, distracted, as always tell me about this dream. The shrink has been sitting in this room for twenty three years, listening to people talk about their troubles. He makes large amounts of money listening to people talk about themselves. In the early days, those years of training fresh in his head, he used to listen intently and try his darnedest to make sense of their inner turmoils and psychological demons. But right around year seven he realized his patience, who he secretly refers to as clients, really didn't want his opinion. They just wanted him to listen, not really even him anyone. They wanted one hour, well actually fifty five minutes to sit there or lie there and bitch and moan and whine and complain without anyone interrupting. They wanted to talk, talk, talk, talk, talk about themselves, God damn it, and they were willing to pay serious dough for the privilege. So now, for the past sixteen years, doctor Smidge has mostly sat in his comfy leather swivel chair, well oiled so as not to squeak, and listens, well, half listens, or maybe a little less than half. Mostly now he thinks about his own problems and his own desires. Like that college girl who started coming in a few months ago. Oh, Christ, how he would like to have a go at her. But well, he's been that route. The doctor patient relationship. What a fucking mess, and for what a guilty roll in the hay in some overpriced midtown hotel. The divorce cost him a fortune, and now his daughter a bevy of problems, all of them conjured up in her head. A thousand times he's told her chest relax, kid, enjoy life. Don't take it so damn seriously. It involves my brother, says Tad. The dream my brother's in it every time. It starts out with us running around the house, playing, having fun, enjoying each other. The last couple years, since the isolation and uncertainty of COVID drove everyone insane, Smidge has been inundated with business. He must get fifty calls a day from people desperate for his help. Before COVID, he was charging one hundred and thirty dollars per session. That jumped to one hundred and seventy five dollars supply and demand. Now he's up to two hundred and ten dollars. And still they keep calling men, women, kids, college kids, high school kids out the wazoo, even middle school kids, an age group hete never treated before. Now they're coming in and telling him they want to kill themselves. He bought a bigger house, bought a s class Benz that costs more than the first house. He and his first wife bought twenty five years ago. For his fiftieth birthday, he bought himself a week at the Ritz in Paris. Didn't take his second wife, told her he was going on a hiking trip with his buddies through the Swiss Alps. Took his mistress to the Ritz, remembering that one night when they were both high on coke and screwing like teenagers. Smidge lets out a little moan of delight, but he quickly covers the moan with a subtle throat clearing and says, hmm, yes, I see, then continues tad. Then the fun ends, and he snaps his finger just like that, just ends. And no matter how many times I have the dream, I never know why the fun ends, but it does. And my brother's angry. He's really really angry. Smidge, back from his Parisian reverie, nods and takes a quick look at the strategically placed clock just over the patience the clients left shoulder, six point thirty nine, sixteen minutes to go. Smidge tells himself to focus, to pay attention to this guy's problems. His ego reminds him this guy is paying good money, good money to sit here, this evening, and the least the shrink can do is pay attention this even while his ID travels back to the Ritz while wondering how scrumptious that co ed would look lying here, bare ass naked on his couch, all while his super ego tries to balance his moral obligations where his primeval needs and desires. And that's that's when his patient is client says in the dream. In the dream, my brother gets angry. My brother gets really angry, gets crazy, and like a second later, I'm flat out on the floor and he's on top of me. And he has a pillow, a pillow from the sofa, not a pillow like you sleep with, but this embroidered pillow roses, I think embroidered red roses. And he's pressing the pillow into my face, really grinding it in and holding it there and pushing and pushing. I can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe can't make a sound. Man, I can't move. All his weight is on top of me, holding me down, me kicking my legs, but the pillow pushing hard against my face. I can't breathe can't breathe until I pass out. The room falls quiet until the faint sound of seconds ticking off the little clock on the shelf over the patient's the clients left shoulder shatters the silence, and then a few seconds later, Smidge, out of character, says, who that's some dream, dude. But but that's the thing, Doc, what's the thing? It's not a dream? I mean, I mean, it is a dream, a dream I have several times every night, and I've had for twenty years. But it's more than a dream. It's what. It's what really happened.

It's it's it's fucking it's fucking a dude, it's reality. It's my reality. My brother tried to suffocate me, tried to kill me. A whole canaan able thing. I passed out.

It's it's it's fucking it's fucking a dude, it's reality. It's my reality. My brother tried to suffocate me, tried to kill me. A whole canaan able thing. I passed out.

I'm only here telling you about it today because my old man heard the scuffle while doing the dinner dishes, raced into the living room, saw what was happening, and slammed my brother over the head with a cast iron skillet to get the crazy son of a bitch off me. That's what happened, Doc, That's the way it went down. And I've been suffocating in my dreams every damn night since. And the shrink Shrunk who earlier stopped at home depot to buy a bottle of clog away laments. You know, we're all just self absorbed beasts with brains too big, eating each other alive, even willing to suffocate our own brothers with rose covered pillows. Tad, momentarily flummixed by this observation, finally nods in agreement. Jesus, Doc, maybe I think maybe he got that right, rest assured Toby, I definitely got that right. Hey, thanks for listening to this original audio presentation of Shrunk narrated by the author. If you enjoy today's story, please take a few seconds to rate, review, and subscribe to this podcast, and then go to Thomas William Simpson dot com for additional information about the author and to view his extensive canon. The Ten Minute Storyteller is produced by Andrew Pleglici and Josh Colodney and as part of the Elvis Duran Podcast Network in partnership with iHeart Productions. Until next time, this is Bill Simpson, your ten Minute Storyteller.

I'm only here telling you about it today because my old man heard the scuffle while doing the dinner dishes, raced into the living room, saw what was happening, and slammed my brother over the head with a cast iron skillet to get the crazy son of a bitch off me. That's what happened, Doc, That's the way it went down. And I've been suffocating in my dreams every damn night since. And the shrink Shrunk who earlier stopped at home depot to buy a bottle of clog away laments. You know, we're all just self absorbed beasts with brains too big, eating each other alive, even willing to suffocate our own brothers with rose covered pillows. Tad, momentarily flummixed by this observation, finally nods in agreement. Jesus, Doc, maybe I think maybe he got that right, rest assured Toby, I definitely got that right. Hey, thanks for listening to this original audio presentation of Shrunk narrated by the author. If you enjoy today's story, please take a few seconds to rate, review, and subscribe to this podcast, and then go to Thomas William Simpson dot com for additional information about the author and to view his extensive canon. The Ten Minute Storyteller is produced by Andrew Pleglici and Josh Colodney and as part of the Elvis Duran Podcast Network in partnership with iHeart Productions. Until next time, this is Bill Simpson, your ten Minute Storyteller.