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We don't understand each other and we are on opposite sides of virtually every spectrum. All I know is that I, like homeboy, feel incredibly depressed after every exchange I have with you.
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And yet, like a moth to a flame . . . .
It's like the old marx borthers' (and probabyl others') joke:
Man: DOc, my leg hurts when I do this (moving leg).
Doctor: Well, then, don't do that.
Or the Woody Allen Joke at the end of Annie Hall where he talks about the guy that goes to the psychiatrist complaining that his brother thinks he is a chikcen. The shrink tells the guy to bring the brother in so he can give him some treatment to get over the delucion. The guy says I'd love to Doc., but I need the eggs.
Ba-da boom!