They say, “Tell me about your childhood, beep boop.”

They accept your co-pay via torso slot.

The practice is called “Our Therapists Are Robots.”

Their cousin is the Mars Rover.

You can see yourself in your therapist’s shiny metal skin.

You go to a therapist on Cybertron.

Their explanations of self-care always involve motor oil.

They’re plugged into the latest psychology research and the wall.

They often ask, “How has being a fleshy one affected your disgusting organic life?”

They drive home by changing into a car.

They failed the Turing Test.

Instead of a medical degree, they display the Three Laws of Robotics and a nude photo of R2D2 on the wall.

Instead of “Bye,” they say, “By your command.”

They do the robot.

Their pronouns are “they” and “it.”