A giant moth walks into a psychiatrist's office...

and the doctor, taken slightly aback, wonders what this monstrous creature is doing in his establishment. Nevertheless, being a good doctor, he asks the moth to sit down and tell him about his problems.

The moth sighs a long sigh, one that shows a deep disgust for life.

"Well, Doctor, I'm in a sort of existential slump, I've lost my zest for life. Things that used to fill me with joy now leave me with an aching absence in my chest, a yawning cavity that holds nothing and says nothing, just an incredible sense of the insignificance of life in general and me as an example of it.

I look at my wife across the table every day at dinner and no longer recognize the woman I fell in love with. She has become vapid, shallow, the sort of superficial bimbo that I always despised when I was growing up. Maybe it simply proves that I was never as significant as I imagined, that I am on the same level as those I formerly looked down on. That my sense of being special and unique is just a biological ruse, something that forces me to cling to life.

And the most shattering is that I look at my son and realize that I despise him as well. He holds this mirror up to me, shows me as the mediocre shell I am, spinning my wheels and waiting for the release that only oblivion can bring."

The doctor looked deep into the moth's tortured eyes and was clenched by a mixed feeling of pity and revulsion, knowing that there were aspects of the moth's soliloquy that touched the very core of his own being. He cleared his throat.

"Well, I'd love to prescribe you some antidepressants, but they're designed to work on humans. Why did you even come in here?"

"Well, the door was open and your lamp was on."