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...
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