You can call me naive, because I am, and you can call me deluded as well but that will earn you a kick to the crotch. I am a clam without a shell. I wear thick ass rose-colored glasses. I don't accept the world as it really is, nor do I accept the true nature of people because I like to think that acceptance, love and humanity are feasible concepts. Godot is about to pull up in a range rover with the dancers from soul train any minute now. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are still alive; they're up to their elbows in Dominican pussy, sipping pina coladas, and eating jerk chicken.

But then there's this:
A year ago, I was in therapy for shits and giggles. I was feeling great for the first time since my childhood. Therapist twelve approached me about taking what is called a "Seratonin reuptake inhibitor," you know, Zoloft, Paxil, Wellbutrin etc. I told her to go fuck herself, because therapists one through eleven had taught me well that masking your sorrows with a drug is about as wise as dating an intimacy-inept jackass with a date application website.

She explained her thinking as such: It isn't wise to mask my sorrows with just ANY drug, but doing it with the drug that buys her monthly 5-star lobster dinners is okey-dokey.

I said to her, "Who on earth do you think you are? A superstar? Well-right you are!" Then I took that damn prescription to my pharmacist (a lovely chap) and started taking Zoloft, the SSRI for sad little bouncing "O's" covered by pesky rainclouds.

At first I felt like a day old poop. That faded quickly, and then another kind of feeling set in. I was invincibly happy, and no starving Sudanese baby with dung in his hair could change that. I was the giggly bouncing "O" that enjoyed socialization, talking on telephones, and spanking it's own suddenly gorgeous ass.

This feeling hung in until approximately three weeks ago. A new feeling emerged. I wasn't a bouncing "O" anymore; I was a nazi-facist "O" with an AK47 and a score to settle with the whole fucking planet. I was the Hitler of "O's."

Tucker Hitler-proofed our apartment, put away the breakables, and stocked up on boxes of aloe-permeated tissue (for both of us). I continued to be gratuitously angry with innocents. I could barely function on a base level, and the English language went backward. I couldn't eat, sleep or read. Even my dog hated me.

Then one night I forgot to take my Zoloft. The next day I rose to chirping birds and sunshine. The anger was gone. My dog pounced upon me and licked my face, and I swore she had little doggy tears in her eyes she was so happy to see Mommy again. I took a long bubble bath and sang "Instant Kharma" because everything was right with humanity, and everyone should make love to each other forever in a wild orgy of wonderfulness and moons and stars and suns.

I had heard that SSRI's sometimes fail. That after taking them for a certain period of time they can actually make your condition much worse. That after they fail you will go through withdrawl symptoms much like the ones Heroin addicts suffer through. I never thought it would happen to me. Therapist twelve would never prescribe me a drug that would do such a thing because she is a unique and special soul, right? RIGHT?

Tonight, while staring into a porcelain bowl full of spinning water and half-digested spicy tuna roll there was only one person I wanted to shoot with an AK47. That's right. Therapist twelve. But I will do nothing because "they" say Kharma's gonna get you, and "they" are unique and special souls.