Death becomes us, especially when "us" is a raging ego so out of control, we think the world will understand that its a good thing for an adult man to share his bed with childwen. Or say, you're so fucking miserable you want the world to know, dump your fiance' take a Grey Hound to Vegas, feel guilty about it and alert the officials and welcome an onslaught of media. Both Michael Jackson and The Runaway Bride (please, call her Jennifer...Jenny from around the block by way of looney bin, but by all means, call her Jennifer) could do what Neal Pollack did to Neal Pollack, Neal offed his persona, he simply killed the hip-political-satirist in his head and he's happier for it,
his minions care not for his new found self, they want the bastard back, but that will have to wait for another election year methinks.
I can barely remember century's dawn, before my persona arrived. I had a job, I owed no debt, I rented an apartment, I wasn't married. My knees didn't hurt when it rained. Then I got involved with McSweeney's, which, according to most dictionaries, is an old Gaelic word meaning ''trendy literary scene.''
Take a few minutes to observe yourself through someone elses eyes, are you too hip for your own good? Are you so full of yourself the shit that comes out your ass shaped like your face? If you see an ego in the road, kill it and immediately reap the benefits of mediocrity, it's not so bad, it's just nobody cares when you're just like everyone else, right? There's only one way to find out.
