This is the demon that sits on Gary's left shoulder. Yes, we exist, and yes, I have horns, and my partner on his right shoulder really does have wings and a halo. Hey - I don't need a halo; they're uncomfortable as hell. Puts strain on your neck, don't you know. I like my pitchfork anyway.
Anyway, Gary's asleep, the poor dear. He and I spent most of the day together. I whispered in his ear for hours today, gave him some good advice that I hope he takes.
Like for one, this weight loss thing, the whole quest, is just absurd. First of all, there stands a good chance that Gary will die shockingly young; I know he's discussed his poor genes with you guys but let me tell you, it's worse than he lets on. His blood pressure is high; his body type and his family history make him a poster boy for an incipient heart attack. Plus I remind him often that half of his family has diabetes; the other half died from it already. Har! Har!
So why lose weight? His father never weighed more than 180 in his life, and he preferred to carry about 150. And he had three heart attacks before that last one. Boy, he needed my help that day. Been helping him ever since, by the way, but that's neither here nor there.
And I keep telling him, his wife couldn't give a shit less; he needs to know that as often as possible. Nobody loves him now; nobody possibly could.
So why fucking bother? I've been trying to convince him all day that since he knows his life is already nasty and brutish, and it's bound to be short; he should just shut the fuck up and eat a twinkie. Oh man, sometimes I can describe the taste of one so accurately to him - that inimitable yellow-flavored cake, the arterial spackle that is the creme filling - that we both want to drive to the local Quickie Mart and grab one.
But lest you think that all I do is fill his head with ridiculous notions, I actually provide a valuable service. I tell him that people are conspiring behind his back; that he's being made a fool of in a dozen conversations at any given time; that he's held in disdain by those he thought loved him. I'm not saying I don't have a fun job, but it's work all the same. This is important stuff.
Hmm. I think Gary's waking up. At least, his snoring is getting lighter. God, that guy could shatter glass. Hey: I've enjoyed talking to you all, and if you ever need me, don't worry - I'm usually calling the shots these days, so I'll be around.
Left Shoulder for Southpaw, Crafty