It’s no secret that many prominent and successful funny people struggle with depression—Woody Allen, Louis C. K., Sarah Silverman, Ellen Degeneres, David Letterman. Owen Wilson attempted suicide. Robin Williams succeeded. The sad clown is a well-worn stereotype.

Personally, I love making people laugh almost as much as I enjoy pissing them off. Hell, maybe more. Humor is what keeps me writing, but to be funny, I have to feel funny. Therein lies the rub. The lit-eyed mania from which my humor is born so rarely manifests. For me, humor emerges in the light between emotional dark patches while I can perceive clearly enough to reach inside myself and put all that crazy on the page. I mean, let’s face it, dysfunction is funny. Anti-social behavior is funny. Self-loathing narcissism is funny. At least for those who are a few emotional steps removed from the lunatic they’re laughing at. Or with.

I continue to take medication and go to therapy so the dark patches aren’t all that dark these days. Most of the time, I’m okay. I like being okay. I like to say, “I’m okay,” and mean it. Trouble is, okay is to humor what infertile soil is to petunias. It’s almost as if I have to choose between being a unmedicated asshole who is funny and a medicated marshmallow who isn’t. All drugs have their side-effects, I guess.

There just has to be some way to keep my mojo without succumbing to complete self-destruction. Right?

All this to say, does anyone know where I can score some cocaine?