When I was young, I was placed in a foster home at one point. One of the many side effects to this was that I had to go visit a psychiatrist for weekly evaluations. Maybe it was monthly, but I feel like it was more often than that. Whichever the case, I hated going. My shrink’s name was Scott. He sported a full academic-looking beard, wore high-rise khaki trousers and diamond-patterned socks that you sometimes see golfers wear. He always wore brown loafers, sweater vests, and dress shirts with collars. Whenever I used to speak with him, he would narrow his eyes in seeming thought, with his hands clasped together and both thumbs supporting his chin. His index fingers were placed together under his…