Writers Jam

the genie stared at me. the feeling of being stared down by a genie who had seen empires topple and kingdoms crumble was definitely something.

he sighed and rubbed his temples. are those his temples? do genies have temples? or foreheads? it seems like he does. or she. or they. i didn’t want to assume the genie’s gender. if they have one. do genies have the concept of gender? well, if they do, i really wonder what they base it on. do genies have dic-

“YOU KNOW I CAN HEAR YOU RIGHT,” the genie yelled.

now it’s my turn to sigh.

“what’s wrong with my request? why are you judging me so much - I’m sure you’ve heard worse wishes.” I said.

“WHO IS SIGMUND FREUD AND WHY ARE YOU THIS OBSESSED WITH HIM? WHY DO YOU WANT TO TAKE THE EFFORT OF TRAVELLING BACK IN TIME TO MEET HIM?” he yelled, throwing up his genie hands in frustration. i giggled and he glared at me.

“listen, this is personal, alright? it’s between me and Daddy Freud, he knows what he did.” i replied, packing my 9×19 mm Glock 17 into my hello kitty napsack. my Dubai chocolate coloured labubu hung from it’s zipper, glimmering in the sunlight.

“your past two wishes were about this guy too!” the genie replied, almost pleadingly. but i knew, no matter what, that i wouldn’t change my mind. that motherfucker would pay.

the genie hung his head in defeat. what a loser. i threw my hair up into a messy bun, adjusted my Freudian slip dress and applied on some red lipstick.

as the genie opened the portal, his eyes devoid of life, i turned back to look at my university. jung, descartes, adler. all respectable psychologists and philosophers.

not freud. the Oedipus complex. his cocaine and fame addiction. his failure in neurology. i was going to solve it all.

that austrian twink is going to pay. and i’m going to be the cashier.