What's Not to Love?

I'm tired of writing nice things about people. Every few months, some friend's wife or daughter will ask me for an essay about that friend so she can tie a bunch of these pages together with yarn and hand it to him as a birthday present. I cannot believe that it took our narcissistic culture this long to come up with the predeath eulogy.

I, however, am such a talented singer of the song of myself that anyone else's attempt at celebrating me would seem lame. What I need is criticism. I suppose I could just read a self-help book, but...