The human ego is like the apex of a pyramid of cheerleaders, the blond girl at the top with the sparkling teeth and the megaphone embroidered on her chest who acts as if she just appeared way up there by sheer force of personality and whose grace is in effortlessly maintaining the pretense that there is no mountain of quivering bodies supporting her and making her moment in the spotlight of the summit possible. She's so into the role that at times she forgets it's a role. Even the most self-loathing person wildly underestimates the degree to which his most impressive human qualities (however few) are dependent on unconscious bodily processes. I try to think of my conscious mind as a weary but undaunted veteran housekeeper in a hotel frequented by vulgar misbehaving rock bands, never knowing what revolting mess I'm going to be asked to clean up next. There's no question who's in charge, the maid unlike the cheerleader has no illusions. It's hard to have delusions of grandeur when you're wearing yellow latex gloves and standing in front of spattered vomit. Hold on a second, am I comparing the products of my mind to spewed vomitus? Yes I am.