Hail The Conquering Industrialist!

Today's post is a highly personal one, as I buck up my self-image after a day of terrible doubt. Remember yesterday, I envisioned my own passing and that of my blog, as seemed all but certain at some point in the next five billion years.

Of course it seems absurd even to me that something this piddling would set me back. But in fact it did. I think there's something about extremely large numbers, billions of years, that messes up my thinking. You know?

Our thinking -- and I think this is true of other people too -- can be spooked. Because we're so used to thinking in terms of today and tomorrow and Christmas and our next birthday. To suddenly see yourself dead, the entire world destroyed, and your blog ended is different.

So yesterday, through the day, I had a hard time putting it out of my mind, but I did my best. As much as I could, I focused on my current reputation, the boldness I live by, the success I've had, and my life's overall mojo. This became a matter of exaltation, lifting myself in self esteem. As a life coach for others, naturally the saying, "Physician, heal thyself," applies to me.

For this purpose, then, in the exaltation process, I envisioned myself in the greatest terms. I became the embodiment of the conquering industrialist, like the dreaded monarchs of old.

You also can imagine it: There's the parade of the conqueror, leading in his foreign captives, along with the beasts of the foreign countries, and their women. Picture it with me, but remember I said it was highly personal. I have to work on my own personal issues, even if some think it's tasteless to do so in public.

Here comes the conquering industrialist, conquering what exactly? The Major Industrial Powers (MIP), doing his best to take them captive. In cage number one, a big gold cage on wheels, we have MIP executives who have been captured. They're nude, displaying their very small parts, and slumped against the bars. In cage number two, a big silver cage, we have MIP officials, nude, displaying slightly larger parts, angry at the executives for advising them to cut corners, making them susceptible to Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) forces. In cage number three, a big bronze cage, we have MIP underlings, foremen and leadmen, also nude, displaying larger parts yet, angry at the officials and executives for giving them such shoddy leadership that their products turned out inferior and overpriced. And in the last cage, the fourth, a big corrugated cardboard (paper) cage, we have MIP peons, workers, truck drivers, and lunch ladies, all nude, displaying the largest parts, except for the lunch ladies, angry at the underlings, foremen and leadmen, and the officials and executives for implicating them in this massive fraud called the MIP.

In this scenario, I am the conquering industrialist, along with other RIM leaders, distributing whips and cattle prods with which to threaten the MIP captives. But at the last second, in my mercy, I command them to set their weapons down, and release the MIP failures, who take multiple paths out of town. Of course the peon class we would welcome more gladly into the RIM ranks; that goes without saying. And up the line it would go like that, with the MIP executives receiving the most scorn, being passed over for any pencil pushing jobs there might've been. As said, they take various paths out of town.

OK, now put this industrial parade out of your mind. And picture me, consolidating in my own person everything, the best the RIM has to offer. I become larger than life, a colossus, striding over the world, going from victory to victory. I take my place, the red giant sun behind me, even it being dimmed in the effulgence of my glory. I occupy such a position of prominence and pride, like the biblical Herod who became filled with worms and died, the people can't even look upon me for the brightness. "This is not a man," they shout, "but a god." I advise my tribunes, much shorter than I, to plead with the people, that such a conquering industrialist considers the word "god" beneath him. They must do better!

Three graybeards step forward, who have studied theology and depth psychology, and they go into a big clawing death match, scratching and biting. One graybeard falls. The other two bring out cudgels, mallets, and spears, and fight. The larger man has the smaller man down. But the smaller man thrusts a scimitar into the larger man's gut, all quite a surprise to him, I must say. The winner's graybeard red with the others' blood, he proclaims me the master of life itself, knowing how many factories depend on my beneficence.

As to the conquered women I mentioned, they minister to me in private.

Right here, after their ministering, I become fully aware of the phenomenon of 'The Psychic Price,' and I become so small the people can't see me. The women don't know what happened to me. I am suddenly dressed in rags and, unlike Herod, am able even to elude the much larger worms that are on the way to consume me. Notice how great I am! Because this is the stumbling block that gets everyone else! But I am a very small man, dressed in rags, little more than a worm myself!

I pick up a used toothpick, its size in relation to me the size of a huge sword. This now is the conquering industrialist's sacred sword. I turn a corner, unseen by anyone, and run right into a dust bunny. I use the sword, this toothpick, to cut my way through the dust bunny thicket. I'm becoming smaller all the time. I'm so humbled. I'm being blown about in the wind and happen to land on top of a fleeing beggar's sandal. He's running because the whole crowd is running, not knowing what happened to the colossus who had been before them. Even the women wish I'd come back.

But the beggar is looking out for number one. He runs to a place beneath a bridge, where he stays. I'm there, now hiding behind a grain of sand. I hear him thanking his lucky stars that he wasn't trampled. He falls asleep, and I hear him blubbering in his sleep, that God should bless their mighty victor, meaning me. "Keep him safe, snuffle, snore," he says. "Bring him prosperity, snuffle, snore," the beggar prays.

As I hear him pray, I'm increasing in size. Finally, I'm normal sized. And because I have powers, I start a campfire and make the man a decent meal of two eggs, four pieces of bacon, hashbrowns, and pancakes with strawberries, sauce, and whipped cream, which you might recognize as IHOP's current special, the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity, Bacon and Eggs Combo, embarrassing to say but delicious to eat. (I don't actually say it. I just get the waitresses' attention, point at the menu and grunt.)

After a while, the beggar sniffs the air like a horny camel, being very much like a thankful Ali Baba at this point, knowing Allah has sent him the food of the gods, something apparently from IHOP. He looks over and sees me keeping the eggs warm in the fire. I have on a very coarse fiber sack dress, or maybe I should call it a prophet's robe. And a hood. My head is pulled in so he can't see my face. The hood's hole keeps everything very dark within. But when I turn my gaze on him, he's able to see two gleaming lights, my eyes.

I suddenly remember he saved me, turn off my eyes and the darkness within, revealing myself very much a normal man, a humble man. He sputters, "You, you, are you?--" "Yes," I smile, a smile playing across my lips, "I am me. Good to know you, kind beggar."

(Let this be a lesson to you. Sometime in the future you too might see me. Oftentimes, I'm right out in public. But I will be that anonymous person you may not recognize. I could be in the next booth from you in a restaurant. I might be that guy in the library earnestly scanning every magazine they have. When you look over, maybe I'll have my eyes turned on, or maybe they'll be turned off. You never know. In fact, I've done many things in life quite anonymously. The other day I put money in a parking meter; no one around appeared to recognize me; I did it like any other person. But maybe you'll be one of the first, after this beggar, of course, to know it's me. Wouldn't it be great for you to recognize me?)

I tell the beggar to come to my factory. I give him a whitewall tire for his trouble. I take off the prophet's robe and put on my normal clothes. People come by to see me, telling me of incredible dreams they've been having about me and the end of the world. I soothe their frazzled nerves, telling them, "No, as long as I'm in the world, the Earth will be spared."

That is what the conquering industrialist speaks. That is what the conquering industrialist declares is done.

Deeply Ingrained Patterns Of Industrial Behavior

Everyone here knows I'm fascinated with certain scholarly pursuits, among them the lifestyle sciences, human environmental science, and group dynamics. I was charting out some of this over a year ago as a lifestyle coach. That's a great thing to call yourself. It sounds great, and it's a completely unregulated field.

You might remember my post a little over a year ago sketching out the "Three Rs of Intentional Group Dynamics": 1) aRrange, 2) Reconnoiter, and, 3) Ruminate. Since then, I've had the interesting experience of seeing both my name and the "Three Rs" in a couple of textbooks (alas, for undergrads). It's interesting, but they don't pay you when you're quoted in textbooks. So that's what I learned from textbooks in the last year!

The "Three Rs," as stated above, are meant for the intentional study or guiding of group dynamics. Obviously, "aRrange" is all about intentionality, the careful arranging in advance of spatial conditions depending on your purpose. You want chairs in the right place, knives put away, etc. But reconnoitering and ruminating are more general steps valuable for any group dynamics experience, being more easily done on the fly than aRranging. But you can aRrange somewhat on the fly, depending, again, on your purpose, and the exigencies of the situation.

I don't want to give away too many trade secrets, but I'm actually pretty good at aRranging on the fly. Let's say you walk into a room of people. The group dynamic's already in motion. But anything you do, like a pebble in a pond, is going to have a ripple effect. You can still do very subtle things to aRrange. Everyone's chair might be angled to the left, angle yours to the right. Everyone might be very quiet, you yawn loudly. There's a thousand ways to stir the pot and subtly aRrange things. The element of surprise is your friend, with the goal of having a lovely time of reconnoitering, then later ruminating.

I love getting together with my fellow residential industrialists in small groups or individually. Doing so over the last few months has been a real experience, showing me some of the deeply ingrained patterns of human behavior in an industrial setting. I thought it'd be fun to mention just a few of the common types and how they relate. You can see if these match up with your experience.

THE EXECUTIVE FOREMAN -- The executive foreman is the guy who never works on the lines or in the plant. He's the foreman of foremen. He doesn't have much to say in the hall, but you can tell he loves the attention of everyone looking at him as he passes. But he's so used to it, it barely registers on his features. The peons aren't exactly afraid of him. They're more afraid of their own foreman getting in trouble with the exec, then taking it out on them. The executive foreman is known for keeping his seething temper under wraps except for when he has a foreman in his office and the door's closed. I love reconnoitering and ruminating them. They always think you're observing someone else. It never occurs to them that they're under surveillance. But I've visited with them, pulling the curtains to get it dim and pull my chair in close to theirs (aRranging), and you ought to see the dynamics! Like big blubbering babies or sinners with a priest. Much sadder than you'd think. Then I ruminate about them with the foremen after hours over drinks. For them, it's non-stop entertainment and laughs.

THE FOREMAN -- There's few people in the factory as personally insecure as the foreman, so it's a great release for them to laugh about the execs over drinks. But my own opinion is they drink way too much. Yet the average guy thinks a foreman has it made. But they're insecure because they've been picked off the line, being promoted, and now they're directly responsible for everyone else's performance. They're at the mercy of the weakest link. So their insecurity's always showing itself, like if people have to go to the bathroom and they have to fill in. Because what if two people have to go to the bathroom? They can't stop the line. So they might be running back and forth, and with desperation comes carelessness. This is where I've seen foremen lose a finger. Group dynamics with a bunch of foremen is great fun, after hours, because they're always drunk. And they'll tell you anything you want to know.

THE LUNCH ROOM LADY -- No one has a better job than the lunch room lady. Her personality's always one for kidding around. She's heard it all and is hardened. She usually has a deep, tough voice. She laughs with gusto. She'll jokingly overcharge you at the cash register, saying a sandwich and coffee are $65.00 or even $1,000! She has cute nicknames for most of the guys, Easy Street, Easy Money, and one I heard for a guy named Les, Worth-less. She's kind of a go-between for people throughout the factory, since the breaks are staggered, so she's always relaying messages. But you can have a bad lunch lady, one who casually drops gossip about who your girlfriend was talking to at the last break, etc., and that's where you get some real factory fights ... I got a couple of these hotheads together in the parking lot one night, thinking I'd get their "feelings" in a group therapy-kind of session. But I ended up refereeing the bloodiest fight I've ever seen. It was very interesting.

THE PEONS -- The peon is a broad type, of course. Ranging from the old faithfuls to the young guys who can't make it a week. The happiest peon is the guy who gets his job and stays at it for years. Everyone knows he's weighing down that position and doing well. He doesn't want to be foreman or executive foreman. He's got a wife at home, he's not out drinking his paycheck.

The mid-happiest peon is the one who's good at what he does but is always looking at his options, maybe wanting to bid on something easier. He's got an in with the foreman -- he's heard some confessions at the bar and knows the value of good information. And in addition, because he's good at his work, and can hold his pee till scheduled breaks, he'll move up in the company.

The saddest peon -- this one is a toss-up. You've got the ones who aren't good at what they do, who need help, who are sickly or need to use the bathroom too much. They're the guys who get a reputation for inefficiency or an inability to improve. The other saddest peon would have to be those young guys who don't want to be there at all. You can't tell them a thing. They don't know the value of a job, etc. They talk back because they don't care. They're jealous about their girlfriends. And, of course, they always have tattoos.

Group dynamics with the old faithfuls is boring, since they're sober and strictly faithful to their spouse. The mid-happy ones do some drinking, and, just like trying to move up on the job, they're also sowing their wild oats after hours. So there's some good scuttlebutt. The saddest ones are so easy it's ridiculous. For the inefficient ones they'll blubber on your shoulder. And the others don't care. But be careful, they'll pull a switchblade on you if you pry too deeply. Stay up to date on your tetanus shots.

The whole factory is a one big group dynamics laboratory. And I love it! It's more or less already aRranged for you, just waiting for you to step in, to Reconnoiter, then Ruminate to your heart's content!

The Headless Horseman Rides Again

Through the dark of night when barely a thing can be seen and all the land is asleep -- except maybe an unfortunate traveler -- the Headless Horseman thunders his way along the roads and paths.

He's looking for something as he passes. He strikes terror in the hearts of those along the way, because everyone believes he's looking for his head. And that if he can't find his own severed dome he'll cut off someone else's to take its place.

Perhaps it will be an old gray haired farmer's head. Or the head of his kindly wife. Maybe a young man who stayed too long at the barn dance and was discovered late along the path. Or a girl separated from her friends through silliness and a wrong turn. What if he shows up with a knife over a crib, picturing a baby's head on his massive shoulders?

There has to be something supernatural, even special, about a rider without a head who's still able to live!

I remember a night not so long ago, a night very much like this one. I was on the path and I heard the snorting of his horse. Then there he was, appearing in all his headless glory, riding like lightning up the path and over the bridge. I had just a moment to duck under the bridge. Among the frightful sounds I heard that night was the sound of my own heart pounding with fear.

Did he hear me? At first it didn't seem like he had as he kept going. But the senses of this creature are said to be very keen. So I'd just crawled up, my heart still pounding, when I heard the sound of the hoof beats again coming my way again. This time I didn't have time to escape.

Suddenly he had me! He swept me up with one powerful arm and off we went! There I was, getting a view of the passing scenery that few people have had, bouncing, helpless in every sense of the word. Where he was taking me, I did not know. But one thing I assumed, my head was probably dead meat!

He carried my roughly into his cabin. The place was way back in the sticks, a terribly kept place. I knew right away this was a guy who needed help. Everything about the circumstances cried out that he had poor self-esteem. But I thought maybe I could help him, if he'd let me. I was in a chair, looking up as he drooled with blood lust, then he staggered toward me with a big knife. In that moment of truth, I summoned the discipline not to flinch. My best bet to live was to help him live. And I didn't want to just leave him hanging.

I asked if he could wait a minute -- "What's a minute? There's no hurry. We've got all night." -- and calmly directed him to sit down. The whole thing must've startled or confused him. I saw him scratch his neck as if to say "Huh?" But to his surprise, he did just as I said.

Next, through a series of probing questions, I got him to open up about his self-image. Not having a head is a downer, I commiserated with him, but I directed him through a personal inventory, pointing out that he still had plenty to be proud of. Obviously his other body parts more than compensated for his lack of a head. This was suggested by the fact that he could ride a horse, carry people, and sit listening to me in a pleasant way.

The thing to do -- and this goes for all of us -- is to be proud of what you have, not to be consumed with regrets for what's missing. Think of it: The fact that you can have regrets means there's a consciousness in there that very much has ideals in a central place. Once you've realized that, you can see in a flash that you're better than you think!

I shared with him some of the teachings about how we picture the soul and consciousness, that in the West we definitely localize it more in the head. But it's not that way universally. Other cultures see the consciousness in the region of the heart or even the abdomen. Maybe that could be helpful to him.

He was interested to learn this, and agreed with me that whatever made him him was clearly present whether he had a head or not. In fact, I said, he ought to take pride for being able to do so much without an appendage that the rest of us consider vital. He was miles ahead, so to speak.

It was a real heart to heart. This in spite of the fact that I could smell liquor on his breath. Which doesn't do anyone any good. Especially if their self-esteem is low, like this guy's was. That's what brings forth the rage and the crazy riding at night.

Anyway, we parted as friends. I said I needed to go, not that I really wanted to, but that I felt he needed some rest. I could stay forever, I said, but I felt that I wanted to pull back to give him space to process what he had learned. "You knew these truths all the time," I assured him, "you just needed a nudge, someone to bring them forth so you could appreciate them with fresh eyes."

So why am I huddled up with the farmers and babies on this black night, hiding out from the Headless Horseman? Because, like them, I know he is looking for something! He's looking for me! Because he thinks he needs me. The poor guy. He drinks, then he has to relearn the whole thing over again.

But I will not stand for this constant regression. I don't want him overly dependent on me and my teachings. Part of my whole philosophy as a self-trained therapist and lifestyle-sciences coach is that eventually I want to work myself out of a job! It's true. I want to give people the tools with which to help themselves. But if they focus in too much on me, that's just as much a crutch as trying to cut off someone else's head and make it your own.

I'm afraid if I saw him, frankly, I might indeed lose my own head and lash out at him, again, putting myself in a dominant position over him and inadvertently causing him to regress further. It's better that I just huddle here until morning when he'll be sobered up.

This Is My Quest

I'm thinking of that old song -- "Da da, the impossible dream da da, da da da da da da. This is my quest, to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far..." And with that I go blank on the lyrics.

But it's a great song. If you're any kind of visionary it ought to be on your playlist. Then if you're up on a mountain or looking across at your first glimpse of the New World, you could play it and you'd be totally inspired.

I'm like that -- I like to have songs as kind of the soundtrack to my life. Just like we see it in the movies. The song never means more than when you hear it attached to characters, their predicaments and the resolution.

And what song would be better for a guy like me than "The Impossible Dream"? I've always been a dreamer, looking for what's just over the next horizon. I get tired dinking around with all the old horizons. I want more, newer, better ones! When they tell me it's impossible, that word to me is like "sic 'em" to a dog with a bone. I'll guard it and defend my own regardless of the cost. You don't tell me what's impossible, mister!

I'm always looking forward to something. And that's what keeps me going. Knowing that something might be just around the next corner, around the next bend, over the next hill, maybe that way, maybe the other way, try it and see.

I recommend it! It's all very nice. Life's an adventure, a quest for something. I left the old country and I didn't know where I was going, but I went. Then I get there -- let's say -- and I have to scrape around to make a living. I might be a fry cook in a sleazy, greasy dive. I've got a full body apron on.

Three weeks ago I was sitting on my own half acre looking for a quest. Three weeks later I'm in this dive. They're calling me Cookie. I'm an old guy who slaves over a griddle night and day. Then when it's quittin' time they pat me on the back and say "See ya tomorrow." But little do they know, this isn't what I was looking for exactly. So I hang up the apron, put my suit back on, and hit the road at midnight. My quest continues!

I've got the greatest self-esteem in the world because I'm not bogged down in what might've been, what could've been, the things of regrets. This is what I recommend. I'm forward looking, looking ahead, kicking every bush I come to for what might shake out. There's no time for feeling sorry for myself, no time for looking back. I've got to keep hoping, keep searching, pressing on toward tomorrow.

If you're down today -- cheer up, friend -- and see your life as a hopeful thing. There's a quest for everyone. And when you wear out the first one, there's another one waiting to take its place. They're endless. They're everywhere. There's a quest for you just over the next hill. Check it out.

Your life will never be the same! And that's a good thing.

My Unique Brand

Here I am again, with something on my mind. Today I'm thinking about my unique brand, what makes me me.

I was reading a scholarly treatise one day on the Pepsi brand, how they're working with a very conscious psychology to get it just right, in line with the times, in line with their heritage, so it will sell as much as possible. And stand out.

It was a little amusing in one sense, that they were projecting the same philosophy and justifying it in terms of today even for the brand 75-80 years ago, or however long it's been. But it's a great idea, and with enough circles and swirls, pie charts and protractors, you can fudge anything.

But really, who can doubt their word, since they sell an enormous quantity of the stuff. I personally don't drink it, but I liked it when I did. The doctor said to quit drinking Pepsi, Coke, all that, so I did. Cold turkey.

Cold Turkey is probably part of my own brand. If there's any quittin' to be done -- "I'm the boss, I say when it's quittin' time" -- it's quittin' time. Just like that, like the snap of my fingers. It's hard, but there's no use in prolonging the inevitable. Just do it. I quit smoking that way, which also was very hard, harder than quitting soda pop. But I got it done.

Yesterday I was thinking about my exact (or close) double in the world. Of course I'm still thinking about him, since the longing doesn't go away after one day. It long preceded yesterday, and unless he and I get lucky, it will go on long after. I guess that's part of my brand, the longing for things. But I'm realistic enough to know there could be some more disappointment.

I really hate to talk too much about my unique brand, because it's a very personal thing (1), and (2) it just sounds like so much self indulgence. Not that I don't like self indulgence -- I do. But it makes for a nasty public display, because everyone else is so busy indulging themselves that they have very little patience for someone else doing it. I know that's the way it is with me, but I at least yield long enough to check out everyone else's self indulgence long enough to see if maybe one of them is my exact double. Also, beyond that, I think it's a kind thing to do, to let people know their self indulgence is an interesting thing to me. It can be.

That sounds like part of my unique brand -- not unique in the sense that no one else does it, but unique as part of the whole constellation of what makes my brand mine. I stay busy tiptoeing around people's feelings, trying to make connections with them that tells them they're important, interesting, and valuable. Hence also my stepping forward as a self-esteem teacher, one sharing the steps to confidence, and everything concerning my current "Drive-for-Pride."

I wouldn't want to be a lifestyle sciences coach, a spirituality coach, and all the other things that I currently am -- oh yeah, a group dynamics expert -- if I didn't have a heart for the needs of others. So that's my brand.

Maybe the whole search for my exact double is behind a lot of this.

The King For The Day Serves Himself

The "King for the Day" -- me -- luxuriates in his castle, brooking no dissent, heeding no clamor.

I issue an edict, like the law of the Medes and Persians that cannot be overturned, that no one shall be served today but myself alone.

Upon my divan, I tend to whatever psychic issues I have, allowing in only positive thoughts, that I may rule my kingdom in well-being.

The flags are flying, a white and gray field with a B&W picture of a little old lady in the exact center. How proud, how inspiring.

In my regal robe, I do a few squats and bends. I touch my nose. A jump to the left, my knees tight, a pelvic thrust nearly drives me insane.

I exist today for myself alone. I am so happy in my castle.

And I am so happy to have named myself "King for the Day," an honor I take gladly but do not bear lightly.

The King In His Castle

I'm luxuriating in it.

I'm alive, happy, and chipper. I'm grateful for the honor of having named myself "King for the Day." It's a title that I can live with. As to what I'll be tomorrow, I'll worry about that if today ends.

I'm a king in my own castle!

Outside are the multitudes, storming the gates, seeking favors and blessings. To them I say, Go away, come again some other day.

Your problems are not my problems for the remainder of the day. I will attend to my own comfort.

If you're upset about something, get over it. If you're deep in grief about some psychic flaw, cheer up, it could pass. If you're down on yourself, sleep it off for the rest of the day. Drink some chamomile tea.

As for me, I'm stretched out on my divan. I'm on break. Today is the day that I rule and reign!

Dare I Declare Myself King For The Day?

I am "King for the Day" -- a good mental luxury that self-esteem teachers and lifestyle science coaches should enjoy occasionally.

It's like a rest stop along the long, lonely highway of helping people with their incessant needs.

It's a time to restock, renew, refresh yourself -- myself! -- so that I'm not completely sapped by the persistence of the multitudes.

I just peeked out on the lawn. They're out there. They hate to be denied even one day, but that's their problem ... added to their others!

For today -- Can I have just one day? -- I will look out for myself, not others. I will be inwardly focused on Number One.

I don't name myself "King for the Day" EVERYDAY, after all. Just once in a while, hardly ever, but today is one of those days.

So please stand back, take a number, be patient. Your day will come. Your problems will be dealt with in turn. Today is MY day.

Just between you and me, assuming you're a helper as well, they're never going to get it anyway. So it doesn't matter if we take a day off.

I know I'm going to lose a few followers by being so frank. But that's OK. There's plenty of fish in the sea.

I need to take care of matters closer to home -- in here. And to that end I will strive. Today, one day at least, as "King for the Day."

I am ... King for the Day!

My Mind Is Set On You

The lifestyle sciences, spirituality, group dynamics, self-esteem -- teaching and coaching -- are my personal forte, what I'm known for.

I'm happy to say I'm a confident person, well-adjusted and centered, and interesting, with a lot of self-esteem myself.

I make it my daily business to do what I can to help others. My mind is set on others, their needs and pursuits. My mind is set on YOU.

I got up today and took personal inventory. That's a common experience for me. Like the carpenter checking his toolbox before setting out.

The carpenter admires his hammer, his nails, his apron. Anyone with self-esteem and confidence admires what he or she has in their toolbox.

When I look at myself, I also like what I see. It makes me happy to be a well-adjusted person with many stunning talents and abilities.

Right now I'm giving myself much credit for being so adept at describing exactly what's going on inside my mind. It translates well.

I am justified in having high self-esteem, because what I have is something valuable and good. I'm in an obviously enviable position.

My mind is working at peak capacity. Perhaps it will never get any better than this. But I'm not a machine. It just naturally works so well.

I'm usually a very private person about these matters, but I know I have a lot to offer to those I meet. Thank you for sharing my world.

I do have one complaint I'd like to air: I think herbal tea tastes funky.