All writers are narcissists, of one form or another

and they get that way, by spending hours by themselves, with their stories

No wonder they are poor, and have horrible social lives

they actually believe their words are more important than the people they write about

Many writers believe they are wise, and socially sophisticated

plumbing the depths of the human psyche

like a sewer

They have deluded themselves into thinking

writing is work—but that’s because they’ve never worked a real job in their entire lives

If thinking is hard, I don’t hold-out hope for the human race

they are all a bunch of buffoons, waiting to be told what to do

and occasionally

doing work, when they sit on their asses and think.

My friend listens to me, go on and on

he lives half-way around the world, and I tell him how great I am

“I just got published in Free Flash Fiction. I’m on my way…”

As I get older, I need more things to believe in, as the hopelessness sets in

and I realize, reality doesn’t matter to me very much—it’s what I think about reality, that matters

and I know this is a luxury, living for myself (what a beautiful selfish thing)

like a rose, that doesn’t need to be admired

for her glistening red petals

“I’m becoming a superman,” I tell my friend, “Just like Nietzsche. Sin isn’t an arbitrary rule, but something to avoid, so that we can become spiritually strong.”

“Uh-Hugh,” he listens.

God bless him, he even writes down what I say, like they are pearls of wisdom—you got to love a friend like that.

2 thoughts on “The Narcissist and the Good Friend

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