Coming home from the war has been an adjustment. My family has had to get used to the fact that I no longer have any legs and also that I am much sillier than before. Every time I get a triggering memory of the war, I have one of my silly episodes. My doctor describes my condition as “insanity,” but I prefer the term “Silly PTSD.”

My Silly PTSD makes night time a warzone. I fall asleep next to my loving wife and the next thing I know I’m back in ’Nam. The alarms are blazing, I’m being shot at on both sides, and I’m forced to kiss my brother goodbye because he’s trapped under a five-hundred-pound pile of rubble. I wake up in a cold sweat, and all I’m left with is a strong urge to… prank! Last night the visions of war were so bad that I rigged a complex system of pulleys and levers that covered my wife in glue when she went to use the bathroom. Silly me!

This morning, my glue-covered wife tells me that she is leaving me unless I figure out a way to get my silliness under control. I try to hide the thirty rolls of toilet paper I have amassed while in a fugue state and beg her not to define me by my silly demons. Unfortunately, I am immediately triggered by a ceiling fan that reminds me of the helicopter that flew me out of Vietnam years ago, and I refuse to continue the divorce conversation until my wife agrees to pull my finger so that I can make a little fart noise

When I come to, my wife tells me that she’s leaving me, and she’s taking the kids. It’s probably for the best. They shouldn’t have to see their father like this—dressed up in a clown suit, wearing shoes that are just too goddamn big. As they’re leaving, I hear the sound of a bomb, by which I mean a bomb sound effect, and I immediately draw a giant mustache on the fresh face of my newborn son before encasing him in a jello mold. My wife can’t even look at me. I can’t even look at myself because I’ve doodled goofy cartoons over all the mirrors. Call me a monster if you will, but some people just don’t understand the horrors of war.