My wife is a psychiatrist. This is how she would respond:

1. The Clinical Response: "Darling, I see you've been crowd-sourcing your identity again."
She adjusts her glasses, not because she needs to, but because it’s part of her Diagnostic Gaze™.
"Did it give you the illusion of control? A sense of agency in the face of your medically induced chemical castration?" She’s supportive. But in the way hostage negotiators are supportive.

2. The Passive-Aggressive Response: "I saw your post, by the way. On Mayo."
She says it like she just found a half-eaten donut in your sock drawer.
"It’s adorable how you think the comment section is therapy. Maybe next time try not to refer to your ADT as 'emotional neutering.' People have triggers."

3. The Psychoanalytic Response: "Fascinating. You're projecting your abandonment fears onto strangers with usernames like 'PSAwarrior_1972'. Tell me, what unmet childhood need is driving your need for digital affirmation from semi-literate men named Ron?"

4. The Bitterly Supportive Response: "Well, it’s not like I’ve been a licensed mental health professional for thirty years or anything. Why ask your wife when you can ask a guy named ‘TexProstateDude’ from Minnesota?"

5. The Darkly Humorous Response (spoken while topping up her wine): "Go ahead, tell the Mayo forum all about your Gleason score, your cribriform pattern, your sobbing over supermarket onions. But when they start sending you 'thoughts and prayers,' don’t come crying to me. Literally. You’re retaining fluid again."

I live the creative life daily, not in some romantic, beret-wearing, jazz-scored way, but through a relentless parade of improvisations masquerading as ordinary acts. I weaponize language in conversations laced with wit and venom (at least in my mind), draft emails that double as literary takedowns, and turn therapy sessions into impromptu one-act plays of psychological redemption. I navigate family dysfunction like a playwright rewriting the same tragicomedy each night with slightly worse actors, coax meaning from a dog’s stare, and repurpose leftovers like a culinary nihilist trying to outsmart entropy. Even my procrastination is a form of dark artistry—time sculpted into elegant avoidance. And through it all, I write: biting, bleak prose that makes cancer, capitalism, and the human condition flinch just a little. So yes, time suspends—because when you live like this, reality knows it’s been outwritten.