There are many things that might bring a person to consult a psychoanalyst.

Are you suffering from any of the following:

political whiplash
diagnostic aporia (DSMay)
rapid oscillatory disaffection related to verbal diarrhoea and constipation
dizziness when having to spell diarrhoea
are you in your own way?

scant self-capture disease realted to being easily distracted by excessive ergonomic concerns
hypercathected arthritic conjunctivitis bred within the microbial heaps of moist towelettes
have you ever suspected you were committing genocide of a conversation?
censor yourself over trivial things out of concern for the other’s right to exist unencumbered by your
insatiable thirst for more airtime?
Have you ever been hatched out of an egg that was laid by something that never was a chicken?
Did this cause you distress, more due to fear of early onset dementia or congenital stupidity, since you didn’t realise right away that many animals lay eggs besides chickens?
Sliding of mantics in all directions crossing your camp, battering you with existential refrains that are impossible to remember, let alone record?

- Persisting post-lockdown lockdown syndrome… how do these words feel in your mouth? If you stumbled over any of them you should speak to someone, doesn’t have to be me. But tell them you’re having a pickle of a temperrible quarrelmondry pronouncing the particulates of evils constituting a very persistent self-imprisonment mentality post the COVID-19 pandemic, disordinarily exposited in your haptic self-slander, syndrome, and adjacent symptoms, discord, etc. etc.

- Unrealised obsessions around starting a podcast or becoming a renowned A-Lister in a club with global cache?
- Can you quote Rick and Morty line by line, but only after years of self-vegetating in front of a looping the television?
- Can Rick and Morty quote you line by line? How accurate are random snippets of peripheral matters of expression at situating your precise place within the diachron of synthetic world history?

- Do you get the sense that the YouTube algorithm has diffused out of the clouds and now populates real ones, fogging up the window to your world with the feeds of random access memoranda, auditory, visual, tactile, as if your nervous system had exceeded the threshol of your own body, circumnavigated the globe, and returned to your head via your asshole turning you into walking-talking torus whose boundless orifices, from ears to anus, have all been turned into mouths that speak incessently, while your actual mouth has turned into an actual asshole?

Or, in a second wind of thought, that the algorithm is all things considered, old news. Much older in any case than its modern deployment in bigtech, whose capacity to sling chunky monkeys and trinkets for your wee-ee on the protocol of finite state machine, perpetuating the ruse of a hyperservile-hypersurvey quasi-cum-pseudo-mantic that thinly veils the fact that discourse is life, a stewing pot in which everything salient to our collective human experience is cooked — set the table, Maud, it's supper time.

Has the impossible-to-be-ad-space become the unavoidable-space-for-confrontation-with-content, despite the ernest feeling that, while you’re sure you’re being manipulated, you’re equally convinced that it couldn’t be in any way of benefit to capitalism, for various reasons, incliuding but not limited to the fact that you’re broke, disinterested, alienated even from technology, holding a tacit but despondent and increasingly resistant grip on your handheld devices, a relation to disconnectedness that leaves you isolated, and incerasingly susceptible to insipid fixations to acquiring the means to organise, economise, ergonomise, and serialise, inevitably arriving at the rendezvous with the fact that acuisition was, is, and will continue to be an end in itself, while you continue to lack any understanding what means are necessary to attain to an end that really means something.

Does your chronic melancholia and indifference indirectly finance million-dollar cooporations like Über and Doordash, who really don’t need to advertise since your laziness is the best marketing campaign they never spent a cent on?

Glutton for punishment?
Like the smell of your own farts, but ashamed of this fact?

If you answered yes to any of the above, then congratulations. You’re doing okay. You might nevertheless want to talk about what’s bothering you – whether it is in the list, or the list made you think of it, or your might be bothered by the fact this list excludes your particular suffering, or is just a source of indifference to you. Even that would be justification enough to see what’s going on with this little thing that doesn’t work called desire.