"So what seems to be the problem?" said the doctor to the patient.

"Joy," said the patient, "bursts of it."

The doctor raised a curious eyebrow. "Go on," he prompted.

"Well," said the patient, "the circumstances aren't always the same, but just for example, I'll sometimes be sitting there in my office, coffee on the left, cinnamon tea biscuit on the right, and all of a sudden the world will seem such a wondrous
and beautiful place that I just want to cry."

"Cry?" said the doctor. "But that's ridiculous!"

The patient lowered his head in shame. "That's what my wife said," he replied. "I fear she's become suspicious of me, for just this morning she asked me if I was hopped up on goofballs."

"And were you?" asked the doctor. "Hopped up?"

The patient shook his head. "I don't even know what goofballs are."

"Very interesting," said the doctor, "and have you experienced any additional symptoms? Incessant smiling perhaps, or maybe a sensation as of something welling up inside you?"

The patient nodded, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "Both," he admitted, "but most especially that welling thing." He gestured to his stomach and made a vague swirling motion with his hand.

"Like butterflies?" asked the doctor.

Once again the patient nodded. "I'm not sure what to do anymore," he said. "I just feel so doggone happy sometimes I
want to take my wife and dance her right across the lawn, and to heck with what the neighbours might say!"

The doctor shook his head rather adamantly, his eyes widening. "Oh, heavens, no," he said, "mustn't do that." He wagged his finger for emphasis.

The patient sighed. "I know," he said, "I know. Should I feel guilty for feeling so joyous, for feeling passionate? Is it
really so bad?"

"Very bad," said the doctor. "Terrible, in fact."

"That's what I was afraid of," said the patient.

The doctor nodded sagely. "Not everyone can be happy, you know. It'd be awfully selfish of you to walk around smiling and laughing and dancing when other people aren't."

"My wife said that as well," the patient replied. "She said it wouldn't be fair of me."

"Your wife sounds like a wise woman," said the doctor.

"Yes, I suppose she is," said the patient. He looked down at his shoes. "I should probably mention that I've been dreaming, too."

"Is that so?" said the doctor, and made a note of this in his file, for as everyone knew, dreams were very bad indeed. "What sort of dreams, exactly? Not big ones, I hope?"

The patient paused, chagrined. "Yes, I guess you could call them that. Or grandiose maybe."

"Grandiose!" said the doctor. "Well!"

The patient licked his lips, swallowed hard. "So what should I do?" he said, more worried than ever. "Can you help me?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said the doctor, "no need to panic. Here, I'll write you a prescription."

The patient squinted his eyes to read the doctor's sloppy handwriting. "Numbsapproxall," he said. "And this will help?
This will cut down on the joy? The dreams?"

The doctor nodded his assurance. "Two per day and everything should soon become very average and very mundane."

"Thank you," said the patient, and wiped a layer of sweat from his brow, relieved. "Thank you very much."

And so off the patient went, and so it was that he lived out the rest of his days in a stupor, smiling only when everyone else did, and laughing only when it was fair. Average days and average nights, dreams like watered wine, and when finally he died at an average age, they put him in an average coffin and buried him at an average depth, and afterwards he was quickly forgotten.