Pensive, concerned about impending death, he stared into the mirror. He saw the reaper, glistening off his bald spot, smiling back. Vanity elaborates upon that most ultimate of neurosis.
What will they say? How will they remember me? Will they make my corpse look presentable?
He could not help it. It eroded everyday. He began to pity himself.
Ah, pity was easy - and empty. Pity was for the weak. Pity was for those who wanted to be down, lower than down, rolling around in mud, shedding futile tears. Pity helped no one. Self-pity is bad, he thought, the desire for sympathy worse.
To ask for sympathy, to lay prone in wait of compassion or salvation, rarely amounts to much. One is more likely to be kicked while down. One is exposed to ridicule, insults, exploitation, and contrived charity. Nothing hurts like being patronized by a grinning self-satisfied bastard with red-tinted sunglasses trying to sell you on a bonehead idea or product, in the name of a Cause. Reverend Quincy tells him to shove his cologne bottle up his arse. Reverend Quincy turns around and pitches you a book about his misadventures with consumerism, cocaine, coconuts, and cream pies. He's selling it, ya know, for a price, cause ol' Reverend Quincy ain't no charity either. Neither was old JC, Temple tantrum notwithstanding.
He turned on the television. An inventor guy was selling toupee-in-a-can. He sprayed it on a balding old woman. She screeched with joy.
"Oh, thank you, thank you," she began. "I look 21 again!"
If that's what she looked like at 21, he contemplated, she should've stayed in her cave. Although unimpressed by the old woman's contrived reaction, the product itself impressed him nonetheless. He scanned the television screen for more information. Nope, there was no price. Nope, not a phone number in sight. Nope, nothing but the image of an old woman preening in the mirror like a teen queen before prom.
"Want to know more?" the inventor pointed to the folks out in TV land. "Stay tuned for our special celebrity client!"
The clock struck 1:30AM. He stayed tuned, barely riveted, insomnia's reluctant captive.
No guidance. I have no guidance, he thought. I need no guidance; it would only make things worse. Guidance makes you dependent, renders you a child. I have no guidance, will give no guidance. The best advice to provide is silence. Those who ask for advice desire sympathy and pity. Pitiful, absolutely pitiful. O, woe, woe, woe is me. What should I do? What would ol' JC do? He would tell you to shut up and JUST DO IT! Imagine that endorsement deal? What would you pay a supposed messiah to hawk your shit? Six? seven? eight? maybe ten figures? Or your first born? Even better question: what would you pay for divine guidance? Your immortal soul? Damnation, thats steep!
He waited, with less than bated breath, for the special celebrity endorser.
"We're back!" Commercial breaks during an infomercial, brilliant, absolutely brilliant.
