Dear Ego,
I am consistently amazed at your unique ability to look a blessing in the face and call it ugly names. I am admitting this to the world because it strikes a swift and accurate blow to your nuts, which I believe you not only deserve but will find helpful in the long run. Having something to bitch about is your favorite hobby. Makes you feel important, better, smarter. You love to complain. But you have a problem now.
I see you there! Pretending to be me, trapping me with thoughts that distract me from the truth. But I'll admit, you were good! For years I believed I WAS you. Brilliant, your constant chattering so that I couldn't hear my own voice. The way you would keep me in chains with your constant self crucifying tone or your overblown self grandeosity.
But now I see that you're only a clown, a mime. You're humorous the way you pull those flowers from your jacket. Flowers that squirt acid words that say I am not good enough. Or maybe they squirt false bravado and awesomeness. And your mime act is equally amusing now that I am not mistaking it for my own identity, swallowing words instead of speaking the truth. Patting the inside of the box in which you said the world has had me stored.
Now, I laugh when you do those things you do. The things that used to make me cry or feel far more powerful than the ones around me. Pretty soon you will get tired, your arms are already becoming exhausted from your fruitless white gloved antics. Your clown makeup will run with your sweat. You will lay down and sleep and I will only notice you on occasion when you muster enough strength for a weak honk of your red bulbous nose for old time's sake.
Until then I will continue to be slightly amused at your attempts at trickery. But you should no longer expect my cooperation nor my identification. Good Day.
