Extreme Narcissism and Rumination

A bored, egotistical teenager tries to come up with a captivating story.

So, here you are.

A lot of protagonists start their books by talking about themselves. That’s what I am, of course; a protagonist; and don’t think I’m not aware of it. I have been a protagonist my entire life. You people generally seem to be under the strange impression that most protagonists are blissfully unaware of their own centrality to the story.

But I don’t want to talk about myself. Let’s talk about you.

First of all; where are you from? How many brothers and sisters do you have? What was your childhood like? Why are you here, and why are you reading this in the first place? Interest? Boredom? Insanity?

Anyways, here you are. Let me guess; you’re sitting down right now. Well, are you? If you aren’t, I’d like to ask you why the hell you like to read standing up. That’s got to be the goddamn stupidest habit I’ve ever heard of in my entire life. In fact, if you are standing up, just goddamn put the book down and stop reading. I don’t have time for people like that.

Sit the hell down, goddamnit. What is the matter with you? (I sincerely apologize to anyone reading this who has been sitting down the entire time. I had to do it for the benefit of all of the idiotic people.)

I will now tell a dramatic story to raise the interest level.

Once upon a time, there was a Cannibal named Pilot.

Pilot the Cannibal did not get along well with the rest of his people.

The reason was because all of Pilot’s people were vegetarians. He did not fit in well.

Pilot was married once. His wife gave birth to a baby boy.

He ate it.

This made him very unpopular.

Pilot now lives by himself, in a cave.

Today, he ate his own hand. There was no other human flesh available.

Pilot is in for a hard life.

First his hand; next, it will be his foot; then he will be forced to gnaw his way up his knee and his leg. Then he’ll eat off his whole arm, then the other one, and eventually all that will be left of Pilot is a tiny, bleeding stump of a body with all the arms and legs gnawed off.

It is not easy being a cannibal.

The moral of this story is that cannibalism is a self destructive tendency, and that eating a baby will make you very unpopular.

I feel like it’s important to put that story at the beginning, because it’ll discourage any questionable sort of people from reading my story. I don’t want anyone who reads standing up (I don’t goddamn care what your excuse is!) and I sure as hell don’t want any cannibals. It’s just not good to associate with those types of people.

Anyways, I guess I’d better tell you about myself.

 I’m a narcissist.

I’ve accepted it. Come to terms with it.

 I’ve also decided that anyone who isn’t a narcissist must be partially insane. Or depressed. Or both.

Probably both.

Anyways, enough about me. I know I'm a narcissist, but I'm not self-absorbed, or anything. I suppose you’re expecting me to tell you another story. A real story this time, you’re thinking, because you figure the last one doesn’t count�"or, maybe you enjoyed it. Maybe you’re into cannibals. I don’t know. I’ve never met you before.

 I have to admit�"I don’t really want to tell a story. It’s going to be horribly tedious and boring. Because things are always more exciting inside your head�"or on the Internet, I suppose. I think eventually�"if we don’t end up extinct because we’re nuking each other to death or we’re dying of global warming or whatever the hell is supposed to put an end to the world in like fifty years�"we’ll all just become kind of absorbed into the internet. But why would that be a bad thing? If you think about it, the internet is just a giant, awesome extension of our brains�"who wouldn’t want to live there? What was life three hundred years ago, anyways? A bunch of farmers stacking hay in a pile all day and validating their pathetic lives by setting dead cow meat on fire or never having sex? Who the hell wants to hear about that?

Real life sucks. It always has sucked�"but people didn’t realize how much it sucked, when they were busy farming, because there was nothing else to do besides real life. Kind of like rock-collecting or ballroom dancing.

But I don’t really have anything else to talk about�"so I guess I have to tell you a story about life. It’s like the farmers. I don’t really know what else to do.

So once upon a time I lived in a town called Stratton, Connecticut.

F**k, I’m already bored.

So, there was this guy who lived in Stratton, Connecticut. He always wore black socks with white shoes, so people always mocked him and everything. One day, he got so mad about always being mocked, that he took a .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle and killed his dog.

He didn’t want his wife to find out, so he took the dog and hid it in his son’s closet. When his son found the dog, he was completely disgusted, but he didn’t turn his dad in; everybody knew that he hated the dog, and the son was pretty sure that he would get blamed and then his parents would send him to military school. His mom always secretly wanted him to go to military school, because she would be able to tell everyone that her son was “serving our country”�"people always get off on other people that “serve the country”�"and she wouldn’t even have to cook meals and stuff anymore.

So, the son decided that he would kill his parents so that they couldn’t send him to military school. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand how to use the gun, so he accidentally ended up shooting himself in the foot.

His mother was convinced that he had done this simply so that he could avoid going to military school and serving his country. His father was relieved; he didn’t want his son to go to military school, because then he’d be stuck home alone all night with his wife listening to her complain about his black socks with white shoes and the fact that their dog was dead.

The wife was so upset about everything that had happened, she decided to commit suicide. She kind of wanted to rub it in her son’s face, so she hung herself in the same closet where the dog had been stashed, using one of her husband’s neckties.

Now, nobody ever made fun of the guy for wearing black socks with white shoes, because his wife had committed suicide and his son had shot himself in the foot and everything. So, the man stopped wearing black socks with white shoes, because there wasn’t really any point to it anymore.

Alright, I’ll admit it�"that story isn’t true. I don’t even live in Stratton, Connecticut. But I might as well, if you think about it.

Author's Note

I hope you liked the story. If not, well.....go live in Stratton Connecticut with Pilot the Cannibal. See if I care.