What makes me angry? What causes me to feel anger? I don't have a single source for my anger. I wasn't molested as a child, or as an adult. Perhaps I was molested as a pre-life spirit. Maybe you are something before you are born, floating around in some pre-existence ether, and roaming around that ether is somebody who tries to have sex with people before they are born. I don't doubt it. But I don't think that those "not yet people molesters" are the source of my daily anger.

Am I angry about some global issue? Terrorism? Aids? Not really. Not that I enjoy terrorism per se. It's just that I don't think my anger is worth much in those cases. If I wear a "terrorism is for dummies" T-shirt to show my anger, I doubt it will do much good.

I can tell you what I'm angry about right now. I am angry at myself for turning this essay into a smarmy, ironic mess, instead of actually writing something worth reading. Let me start again.

What makes me angry? Let me take a deep breath, close my eyes and conjure it for you. Oh, there it is. My fat, stupid ugly body and the worthless, sluggish and simple mind that is trapped inside of it. I shouldn't say trapped, actually, because it belongs in here. If ever there was a body and a mind that were meant for each other, it's my smelly, sweaty, pink and stingy pig's ass of a body and the jackoff, loser idiot personality that sits comfortably and appropriately inside of it, telling it to go get more candy, more doughnuts and to eat itself into yet more embarrassment and then masturbate itself into a cocoon of shame.

Why am I angry? Every morning, I wake up, I open my eyes, remember who and what I am and I say, "Yuck." Then I go about my day, and when it's over, I get back in bed, put a sheet between my sweaty legs and, as I drift off, looking back on a day of being this shitbag of a human, I mutter to myself, "Jesus Christ."

I know some people think that all I need is therapy. "Why don't you go see someone who can help you?" those people are thinking. And to those people I say this: "Why don't you go find yourself a nice cigar box full of cancer and shove it in your ass?"

I've been to therapy and there are limits to how much that can help. In my case, those limits are this: I might as well be hitting myself in the balls with a heavy table. On my last visit to a therapist, I was describing for him how I sometimes buy a big bar of chocolate - I mean an unreasonably big bar of chocolate - and I'll sit and eat it with a big frown on my face. I don't enjoy a single bite of it. I can feel my body rebel from the sugar and the richness of the chocolate is making me feel instantly awful. But I force myself to eat the whole thing, plus whatever other 15 kinds of food are also in front of me. Then I lay on my back, feeling all this poison in my stomach, the acids and bile are sitting there just looking at all the crap I've eaten and they're shaking their heads, sighing. I can't move.

I described this moment, which is often repeated in my life, to this therapist, who looked at me with wonder and disgust and said, "Why? Why would a person do that?! What's wrong with you?"

That's how bad I am. Even a man who is trained at the art of understanding every flavour and level of human unhappiness, is blown away by my awful habits.

Some of you might read this, then look at my picture and you might say, "Louis, you're not that fat." To those people I say, "Yes I am, you blind idiot. Why don't you shut up and wipe off your eyes? I'm a goddamn pig."

Why am I angry? I'm sitting here right now in my underwear and socks that don't match trying to write this on the day it is due. I had two weeks, I did nothing. Every time I sit at my laptop to try and create something, I start to feel agitated. That's normal. But instead of letting that agitation settle down, or letting it morph into inspiration so I can get some work done, I click over to the internet and masturbate to the first picture of a leg that I can find. I've done it three times since I started writing this just now.

Some of you reading this are probably thinking, "If eating and masturbating make you so unhappy, then indeed, why not just stop?" To those people I say, "I hope you fall out of the tallest window in the world on to the sharpest thing in your apartment."

What makes me angry? I can't wear decent clothes. I see people walking around in suits and smartly snappy shirts with buttons and structure. Pants with pleats, shoes that shine. I would love to dress like that. But my body is like a mailbox full of fat and hate. There are no curves for clothes to hang on. I have no shoulders, I have two fat arms sticking out of a ball of putty. When I put on a suit, it just sags and wrinkles, the shirt pulls out of the pants, the pants keep falling and all of it makes me itch and rash and sweat. Every second that I am wearing a suit, I look like I'm having a heart attack. I am only barely comfortable in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and even then I want to explode and die every second of my life. I know what some of you are thinking now. And guess what? I don't give a shit. Just shut up and leave me alone you meddling pricks. Go bother someone else. Who am I yelling at right now? Nobody could possibly read this far.

What makes me angry? I'm not angry. I'm just a little depressed. Thanks for asking, though. I'll be fine. Asshole

· Louis CK plays Dublin this weekend, then London and Edinburgh