Things Could Be Worse

Simon stands in some high place and contemplates death. His life is nothing. Every dream he has ever had, (or thought he had), had failed to come true. He is pimply, balding, fat, short, and has a small penis, (this last despite a number of products he acquired on the internet to fix this deficiency). We are all the heroes of our own movies and Simon has decided his movie is a tragedy and needs a tragic ending. No one loves him, (or rather, the people that Simon wants to love him don't love him), and if the world doesn't care about Simon than Simon doesn't care about the world, (of course Simon has never given the world a reason to care about him). Tears on his cheeks, sorrow in his eyes and some great and tragic orchestra playing dirges in his head, Simon lifts his foot into emptiness for his last step....

...and puts it back down.

"Whoa! I was afraid you weren't going to do it!"

"What? Who?"

"I don't really have a name, but you can consider me your conscience for right now."

"I can't move!"

"Well, you were about to step off a building! If I let you move, you might go ahead and do it! Can't have that!"

"What's going on!? Are you..."

Various vague images of silver men with wings, dumpy, friendly looking men named Clarence, and a great big humanoid spotlight seated on a golden throne flit through Simon's mind.

"Oh no. Nothing like that. No divine intervention going on here, buddy. I'm just an interested party."

"Where are you?"

"Oh just in here behind your eyeballs, looking out at the world. Wow! There's a hell of a view from up here, ain't there?"

"I don't understand! I just wanted to die!"

"Yep, I know. That's why I'm here."

"You're here to stop me? To help me? Why the hell did you come here now!? All my life I've been waiting for someone to help me, to listen to me, and now you come along at the last minute after everything has turned to garbage! Why the..."

"Whoa! Whoa! Hold on there buddy! You're thinking divine intervention again. I'm not here to help you with your problems. You want that stuff go see a therapist. I'm an Ephemera."

"A what?"

"An Ephemera. An elemental of the air. A dream turned to wind in the storm of a nightmare. A wad of synapatical electrical current given life during a particularly intense orgasm by a truck mechanic called Lucille. Take your pick. There are a lot of theories. Personally I think it has something to do with satellite television. There seem to be a lot more us around since that came around. But suffice it to say I'm a spirit and leave it at that."

"Then what do you want? I don't understand..."

"Oh that's easy, buddy. I want you. Or more precisely, I want your body."

"What!?"

"Well hey, you obviously don't need it anymore. So I'm moving in."

"But you can't! It's mine!"

"Oh yeah? You the kind of guy who, if he isn't hungry, will throw his food in the trash rather than give it to starving child?"

"But....but....."

"But me no buts, buddy. You moved out, well nearly, and I'm moving in. It's like people say, you can't take it with you."

"But what happens to me? Do I die? Do I become a ghost? What?"

"Oh no. Can't lose you! Need the engine to keep the car going. Don't ask me why. But I'll be driving from here on in. Now tell me, do you know where I can find a good gay bar?"

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah, I've been thinking about it ever since I became human and I've decided that I'm gay. So I really need someplace where I can find some lovin'. The fleshless think about sex quite a lot you know."

"No! You can't! I'm not..."

"Whoop. Never mind. I can see it in your brain. Hmm. Not too far. Better get a move on for the night is growing old!"

Cue the receding footsteps and the fading psychic screams of Simon, (or the individual formerly known as Simon, to be accurate).

In recent years, there has been a significant decrease in the number of suicides in the United States.

This is not the good news that everyone thinks it is.