My Dinner with Freddy

So I was having a conversation with Freddy Krueger the other day, talking about how we both just hate it when horribly disfigured people show up out of nowhere to mutilate us with knives, chain saws, etc.. Freddy told me a story about something that happened to a neighbor of his last summer. Ugh. Just awful. Anyway, he suggested investing in a good security system. Sucks to have to spend the cash, but what can you do.

I later recounted the conversation with a pal who seemed upset. "Wait! Freddy Krueger? You realize that he, himself, is a mutilating monster, right?"

I told him that, yeah, I know Freddy's reputation—though he's always been decent enough with me. But my pal was very distressed. "This is not good, Jim. This is not good at all!"

And the strangest thing happened. In his agitation, scalpels kept falling out of his pockets. His jacket pocket, his pants pockets, the cuff on his pants. They all fell to the ground, glinting brightly in the sun, several handles caked in blood. While he continued to warn me about the folly of discussing monstrousness with bona fide monsters, he absent-mindedly gathered up the blades and tucked them back into their pockets, without a word of explanation.

Weird, no?

So I ask you nice people—we're all good people, am I right?—whether I ought to refrain from talking to....

Oh.

OH.

Never mind.

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This is the creepy loop I experience when discussing narcissism with people. With whom, exactly, am I confiding? Fervid agreement is easily elicited while (metaphorical) chainsaws power up.