So, a moth walks into a podiatrist’s office. The podiatrist asks “What seems to be the problem?” The Moth responds:
“Oh, Doctor Gregory Illonivich, I’ve aged so very much. I wake up in bed every morning-weak and out of breath- and I roll over to see this old lady that I don’t know any more sleeping next to me. I used to have such love for her, my Natasha, but I don’t anymore. My heart is a hollow shell in my chest.
“My daughter, Sonya, was supposed to be married, but her fiance died in the war. Now, she just walks around the house, too young to be the widow that she is. Even worse, my son, Alexi…I don’t love him anymore. Not since he was dishonorably discharged for deserting last Spring.
“I look at him and I think that I see the same cowardice that I hate in myself. A cowardice that I wish I could shake off just a little bit, just enough that I can take that loaded pistol out of my night stand drawer and bite down on the barrel.”
Dr. Gregory Illonivich, horrified by what he’s heard, thinks about it for a second. “Moth,” he says, “You don’t need a podiatrist. You need a psychiatrist!” The Moth nods his head.
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, then why did you come here?”
“Oh, the light was on.”
——-
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