Tick. Tock. The time was passing by so slowly.

Tick. Tock. The time was passing by so slowly. I glared at the clock and willed it to go faster. Nothing happened of course. I tried to pay attention to the droning of the teacher'

'Wah-wah-wah" Good grief, this class is taking forever. I fold up my security blanket and use it as a pillow. Poor Charlie. He's having PTSD from Lucy's punt-feints.

I wonder if Lucie understands the connection between her desire to be a psychologist and her desire to consistently punish Charlie for his unflagging trust.

What Lucy really understood that if she could keep passive-aggressively controlling Charlie Brown with her mind games, he would keep paying her 5 cents for therapy. You see, Lucy

had caught onto the "don't cure the patient, give him the right bait, let'm bite, play'em out for years, & you're in the gravy" trick some psychoanalysts play. "Chuck, the football

is just an analogy. See?" Chuck narrowed his eyes. "For what?" The psychoanalyst swallowed. This one was smarter than most. He stood and looked at his certificate. "Let's talk

about your payment plan. I can't accept roubles any more." Chuck was shocked. "But I only ever pay psychoanalysts in roubles. It's a silly superstition I have." The analyst gritted

his teeth, then opened a mickey of vodka which he drank in one gulp. The shrink loved the motherland. "In Russia, vodka finishes you!" he yelled, flinging the bottle at Chuck's hea

d. "This is not true Wodka. I have been to your Milwaukee, W. I., where supposed Russian mafia sells this crap made from distilled pig's liver. In Russia, we use potatoes...

potatoes and propane. You must not let the propane explode on the highway, but that is how we do things in Russia: Ham-fistedly."