I am laying an ego. With the assistance of a soako-analyst I am overhauling my instincts, liberating my innate masterfulness. Just wait till you see my rebuilt personality.

It's wonderful what the right soako-analyst can do to your complexes and your finances. My soako is a woman, of course. Male soakos are best for feminine mind-patients; but any man who needs to have his psychic self revamped should hand over his unconscious to a sympathetic lady soako. The attunement is lovelier. She can more understandingly separate him from his inhibitions and his dollars.

My soako and I, we have talks by the hour. At fifty dollars per. We talk about criminals and insane people and how everybody's crazy if they only knew it. She explains how that dream I had after eating that stringy Welch rarebit—that dream about throwing the size twelve overshoes at the canary—proves that I secretly desire to murder Uncle Alfred and elope with Mary Garden. If I could just commit that homicide and meet Mary, these annoying conflicts would clear and leave my unconscious as serenely blank as my conscious. So far, Uncle and Mary are still having it out atavistically in my foreconscious. I must eat some more Welch rarebit.

Before I went to this nerve therapeutist I had fears. But she has cured me. She is all nerve. I thought there were some things one could not mention to a lady. I thought that when visiting a lady, even by appointment (office hours: 9—5) one could hardly make certain allusions without incurring a "Sir! Leave this house instantly and never let me hear your conversation again!"

But now that I have been initiated into the New Freedom, I know that the automatic prehensile response is another fifty on my bill.

So I am learning, progressing. A new mental day is breaking and so is my bank account. The dun is near.

But when I get my mind—what'll I do with it?

I think I'll become a soako myself and take in lady patients.