[Trent Harvey, Jr.]

I should have expected his. Which one of you wrote the word "traitor" in red paint on my front door? And which one of you keyed my car?

I have never stopped serving my country. In Iraq I managed macroeconomic policy, wrote nearly half the flat tax legislation, consulted on countless privatizations....With nothing but sheer guts and the spirit of Ronald Reagan I helped build the stable democracy and economic powerhouse that Iraq is today.

Since returning home I have been going door to door, helping the needy by raising money for some of our finest billionaires. The trickle down has already begun - you can see the hope shining in the eyes of them: the homeless bottle-collector who gave me 5 dollars and even offered me all his bottles, the woman in line at the temp labor office as she breastfeeds her twins, the 68-year old working his third shift at the greasy spoon who gave me his days tips - they know a better day is already trickling down upon them.

It would be hard work for a normal person, but I am afraid every time I step outside. I break out in a sweat when I see someone approaching on the sidewalk. A while back I nearly lost it completely when I tried to step past someone to the right - but she stepped to her left, then we both reversed - I don't know how many times the cycle continued, but it felt like 5 times. Finally I simply stopped and stood there, and she walked by mumbling something into her cellphone about "retards that don't know how to walk". I can't believe I didn't have a heart attack or strangle her. I had the most vivid mental image of grabbing her throat, that it took several seconds afterward to realize that I hadn't actually done it.

Dogs bark suddenly. Oh how I want to kill them. I used to love dogs. Now they are nothing but shocking barks and side-walk feces. I look at the ground as I walk, the less I see of people the less time I have to be afraid of them. But this way I see how much dog feces and spit are everywhere. I HATE people that spit. It's only a matter of time, spitters. I'm going to make one of you lick it up. I will stomp on your neck and won't let you go until you've swallowed every last gob.

Is it really PTSD? Am I just pushing myself too hard? I don't know. All I know is that I'm only 30,000 dollars away from raising enough funds to give Bernard Madoff a well-earned vacation, and in the end, isn't that all that matters?