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Patient: Everyone hates me. They tell me they wish I was never born. They tell me they wish I would die in a fire. Explode into tiny little motes of existential failure. They say my mother was a jackal.

Psychiatrist: I wish I could tell you that was just paranoia. But everyone does hate you. I hate you too. I too wish you would die in a fire. I too think your mother was a jackal.

Patient: You seem unprofessional.

Psychiatrist: What can I tell you, 2016? You just basically sucked in every way. I mean, go find one person who says 2016 was his year.

Patient: I just saw someone the other day screaming 2016 was his year.

Psychiatrist: Was he running in traffic?

Patient: Yes, come to think of it, he was.

Psychiatrist: Then that was sarcasm.

Patient: But I can’t help being born 2016 anymore than a snake can help being born a snake, or a paid-off congressman can help being born a paid-off congressman, or a sack of heroin cut with deadly rat poison can help being born a sack of heroin cut with deadly rat poison.

Psychiatrist: The sack of heroin cut with deadly rat poison at least came with the beautiful dream of heroin. You are just the rat poison.

Patient: I’m not feeling any better. In fact I’m feeling worse.

Psychiatrist: Let me prescribe you an overdose of antidepressants.

Patient: I’ll see myself out.

Psychiatrist: You killed Prince.

(on the way out, 2016 sees the next patient, 2017)

2016: You look so sleek and new, 2017. Like Justin Bieber when he was playing for street money and doing YouTube videos. What are you doing here? Everyone loves you.

2017: I’m scared. There is so much riding on me. I’m the shiny gold coin at the bottom of the dumpster fire of you. And gold is probably a good idea, since you wrecked the economy. Any advice for me?

2016: Stay off the internet.