I want a warmer inner narrative. The one I have now is self-protective, and it makes it hard to make friends. I love having friends, friends who chat. I am not one to chat, but I do enjoy the sound, especially of pretty and vicious women, their double-speak and fingernails clicking and wineglasses clinking on the counter. Something of a domestic man, I feel most comfortable in the kitchen, where I lack the necessary parts to pose a threat.
I'm tired of being proud. There's no reason to carry more ego than necessary to function on a day-to-day basis and get paid, son. Sometimes I try to fix that. Tearing myself apart is a bad solution, although the brutality can be exquisite and gleeful, like eating a whole roast chicken. I have a very sharp knife inside, so sharp it almost doesn't hurt to cut. An ego carved into a clever, mocking shape, though humbled, makes me feel inferior, cold and contemptuous. It's hard to take jokes in that state. It's like being fourteen again without the crusty sheets, the crusty pillowcase, the crusty socks, and the crusty chicken Kiev. What a way to get salmonella.
Inflating others (people, not dolls) to be bigger and better doesn't work because then they disappoint. That is essentially cruel. I've never been good at concealing disappointment. Ask my wet nurse.
What I try to do is practice ritual humility before the universal human themes: birth, death, eating, pooping, love/hate, and the unknown. Yes, it's tough to be humble before your own poop, but maybe that's the ultimate challenge.