A Segment of a Satire on Myself

... I have self esteem issues, which is perfect for me because I love to cry myself to sleep at night, next to eating oatmeal, and reading Robert Frost’s poetry, it’s one of my favorite pastimes. Honestly, I wouldn’t say I’m sensitive, just more emotionally activated than the rest of the cold hearted, passionless, robots I am forced to associate myself with. I would say I’m better than my peers: I’m smarter, more attractive, and obviously more respectable, but that’s a little self absorbed. Every time I see a mirror, be it a reflection in my imported sparkling water, or a simple glimmer off the glasses of someone trying to speak to me, I make sure to admire my own reflection. I’m always surprised, in constant awe of my perfect hair, beautiful brown eyes, or any of my beautiful, flawless features. However, sometimes I find positioned upon my face a disfiguring blemish, I believe it’s referred as a ‘zit’ by the middleclass peasants I’m constantly looking down on. This ‘zit’ stares at my with its one, white eye, waiting until it gains the courage to sputter out the words, “Does my presence upset you, Master?” I can only gaze at the oozing volcano of pus on my face, responding with, “Your presence would upset, but I can’t be upset about anything when I’m staring at myself."

Some would call my self-centered, narcissistic lifestyle a problem; those people should be hauled out to face the firing squadron, and then filled with bullet holes, or ‘taken care of’ as I like to call it. It’s just that I’m constantly striving for the best for myself; I don’t think that’s a problem. What is a problem is when I don’t get what I want; that’s where the troubles begin. When I ask for my thousand dollar face cleanser, and receive an off-brand, eight hundred dollar face moisturizer (imported directly from France), that’s when I get a little upset. But that only happened once, and when one of the hired servants ended up going missing. The cops showed up, but they took one look at my face, and handful of Benjamin Franklins, and they stopped asking so many questions and called off the search for the body. Good help is so hard to find these days.

I also love to worry. My inability to shut off my internal dialogue and stress talk is quite frankly the greatest thing in my life. Am I too fat? Do they hate me? Whatever. I absolutely love to worry; I love to be audible with my worries and concerns too! It helps more people pay attention to me, which is one of my favorite things in this entire world is when people pay attention to me. I’ve been told by many that my anxiety is also a problem: my mother, my doctor, and even myself. Not even the help of the most advanced anti-depressants can slow my anxiety. The doctor had me on an eighty milligram capsule of Zoloft every couple hours, but that didn’t work out. Now he has me on tranquilizers designed for rampaging elephants and Tom Cruise, but that’s not even enough sometimes.

After a long day of parading around the social palace I call my life, I retire to my mansion, where I can finally wind down. In my sanctuary I sit atop my gold, jewel-encrusted throne. I call for my personal servant to retrieve my special goblet of imported sparkling water and my dinner, which is always a steaming hot bowl of oatmeal, along with one of my many Robert Frost poetry compilations (I love to read while I eat my oatmeal). Following dinner, I look in the mirror for a couple of hours. After this I begin to worry, and the climax of my anxiety, when I screaming and yelling, one of the servant boys shoots me with a tranquilizer dart. As I stumble to my elegant four-poster bed I think of how wonderful my life is. Finally, I pass out. Dreams of me begin to fill my head as I begin to slumber. Slowly a single tear trickles out of my eye, for I am truly happy.