Well, Mac, I don't know how you'll ultimately handle it, but I find it best just to stay in my bath robe all day, drool a lot, and count the hairs that fall from my head onto the linoleum. You don't get a lot of sympathey from anyone that way, but it does afford considerable opportunities to let your mind wander through the past years of your totally meaningless life. There's nothing but kicks reminiscing about all those missed opportunities to do the things you could have done if your youth and vigor hadn't been squandered on fruitless efforts to convince the unconvinceable of things no one needs to be convinced of in the first place. I can't begin to tell you how incredibly invigorating - nay, exhillarating - it is to constantly be reminded from day to day how life would have been, had you not been brainwashed from infancy to believe that just living a normal life would condemn you to everlasting destruction. But, what the hell, right? Life is a death march. When you get old, Mac, you live in your head. You'll be finding that out in another twenty years or so. That's when the real fun begins. You get to watch that never-ending movie in living color of those halcyon days of youth when you were the golden adonis with the twenty-eight inch waist and a forty-seven inch chest on a six-foot frame, and you moved like a panther. Your hair was dark and thick, and you were embarassed because beautiful girls came out of nowhere just to run their fingers through it. You get to see how people marveled at your many and varied talents, and wondered why you didn't pursue at least one of them to ultimate success. There you were, the top athelete and the top scholar all the way through your school days. You were always the president of your classes and the captain of all the teams in sports, as well as of the debate and chess clubs. Out of school, you married the girl of your dreams and raised a family of teriffic kids who made you proud to be their parents. It's all there in the movie. And you get to run it over and over in your mind for the rest of your geriatric existence. But it's not all good times. The movie won't let you forget the horrifying details of how your best friend and life-long soul mate agonized through a heart breaking bout with brain cancer and died a horrible death, after being DF'd because her husband wrote a book exposing the duplicity of the WTBTS. Sometimes the movie ends in the middle of the night and you have to come back to the reality of the present while you're lying there all alone in bed. I wish I could tell you how much fun that is, Mac, but somehow it just doesn't seem to translate. There's no real reason to get out of the bath robe and into your street clothes. No one's coming to see you. There's nobody who would care to have you in their home as a guest. Your just an ugly, flabby, balding, uninteresting old man who can barely walk. Nobody wants to put up with hearing you say "How's that?", because you miss about 80% of everything they say. Well hey - I'd better quit and get out of here now. I've got a movie to catch.
