"Therapy! Rose, they want me to go to therapy." John slumped into the chair in front of her desk. "What would I say to a therapist? 'Hello! I'm the part-human clone of an ancient alien with both a God and martyr complex who lies about his age--900, really, he was 900 about three or four centuries ago, it's like a woman saying she's 39. My first act of life after waking up naked in front of one of the most terrifying women I've ever met--second only to Jackie Tyler--was to commit genocide. Then my original self abandoned me and the woman he loved on a beach in an alternate universe, and I had to tell her, "Nope, so sorry, can't spend the rest of my life in loving bliss with you, 'cause hey, guess what? I just figured out I'm gay."' He'd say, 'Tell me about your mother,' and I'd say, 'Well, my people didn't have parents, per se, they had genetic donors. One could choose to raise one's own children, but it was considered awfully gauche. So I didn't really know my mother. Or, going by the "genetic donor" definition, she's a 38-year-old temp from Chiswick with a tendency to slap and a gob as big as mine.' And on top of all that, I'm still not ginger! Sometimes I think the universe hates me."