A moth flutters into a podiatrist’s office, slumps heavily into the patient chair, and looks as though the weight of the entire universe is crushing his tiny wings.
“What seems to be the problem?” the podiatrist asks, startled by his unusual patient.
The moth buries his head in his hands and sighs. “Where do I even begin, Doc? My life is a spiraling black hole. My boss is a sadistic tyrant who tortures me daily, and I’m too gutless to stand up to him. My marriage is a rotting carcass; the love I once had for my wife has festered into pure resentment.”
He shudders, choking back a tear. “Last winter, the cold, unfeeling universe snatched our young daughter away from us. And my son? I look into his eyes and see the exact same pathetic cowardice that stares back at me in the mirror. I’m bitter, hateful, and trapped in an existential void. I am a living, breathing disease.”
The podiatrist stares at him, utterly stunned and deeply disturbed by the bleak monologue.
“Good grief, Moth,” the doctor says gently. “You are dealing with some profound, devastating psychological trauma. But I’m a podiatrist. I treat feet. You need a psychiatrist! Why on earth did you come into my office?”
The moth shrugs his wings and replies,
“The light was on.”
