“What am I supposed to stop feeling? Guilt, insecurity, self-loathing, rage?...And don't say self-loathing because that's a personal favorite. Am I supposed to stop being me?” “You're tortured by your fear and it's killing you.” “Hey, I've dealt with a lot of shit in my lifetime. The sudden unexpected death of my grandmother, the long, drawn-out death of my grandfather... my mother's life... I may never have been homeless or starving, but it hasn't been easy. I'm starting to feel like some whining yuppie bastard who's all bent because he didn't get a new Jeep for graduation. Believe me, I get by... baggage'n'all. That-which-doesn't-kill-us-makes-us-stronger, right?” “That which doesn't kill us. Try to look at this as stress reduction. We're merely trying to reduce certain debilitating factors in your personality so that you may live long enough to realize your potential.” "This is what I learned first hand: If you live long enough, you know what potential you realize? The potential to turn back into a baby before you step from this mortal coil. Symmetrical. Live a solid eight or nine decades and you get to leave this world in much the same style as you arrived--curled in a fetal position, unable to communicate the most basic need or thought. Simply waiting for the next feeding. You can live your life with purpose, direction, honor, success and if you let nature take its full course, you'll consider yourself lucky if you have someone to who'll clean you up when you've shit yourself the night before and your definition of success will be when you've managed to turn your own body to another position so you avoid getting another bedsore." Bill positioned his feet, bent his knees slightly and took his next stroke. This one was a miserable slice, straight into the rough. "I've had high blood pressure since I was twenty-one. My heart is already beaten to a pulp. There's no danger of me living to old age." “Well, that solves that.” “When I was sixteen and seventeen I was pretty suicidal. Shortly after, I discovered the world of recreational drugs and my suicidal urges were replaced by sweet... perspective.” “Is that right?” “No longer feeling pain or much of anything else, I became a functioning, productive member of society.” Bill's new golf partner and confidant returned his club to the cart and purposefully walked up to Bill until their faces were about a foot apart, smiled and asked, "What was your pain?" Suddenly overcome with a creepy, tingling sensation, Bill took a new look at the man before him. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?" “I'm your father, Max Reisel.” “My father. You look about my age. What are you, some type of therapist?...Because if you are, I'm not really up to some wacky projection therapy. How about we just finish the round?... By the way, how did you know my father's name? You been through my files too?” “No I am your father. Yes, I am only thirty-one years old but that's because that's the only father you know. Your dad is a manifestation of black and white Polaroids, and anecdotes, both good and bad, told ad infinitum by your mother...Oh yeah and those six Wonder Years scenarios you've got in your head. It took a lot of work for me not to be standing here in greyscale. I had to be colorized like an old Ted Turner movie.” “You're not real?”

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