After a few weeks I began to get bored. There was only so much of the day that could be filled by wandering my quickly-growing collection of mirrors and striking poses with my equally fast-expanding collection of shades and automatics.
I need a hobby, I thought. Self-portraiture appealed. Or sculpture. A great, big, impressive statue of myself. How hard can it be?
I went along to the library, dislodging piles of dust and sending the mice squeaking for cover. A sign caught my eye; Self-Help Section. Made sense. I wanted help, and who did I want to help? Myself, obviously, seeing as there was no one else around.
Well, I have to say it was an education. I picked up book after book. My head began to spin, and I was hyperventilating, choking on the dust and thumping myself on the chest. The books scared me out of my cosy little bubble. I started to see myself for what I really was: A borderline sociopathic, manic-depressive, obsessive-compulsive narcissist paranoiac with authority issues, abandonment issues and acute hypochondria. I filled several sacks with all the books I could carry. A few of them were damp from all the sobbing. I stopped off for a box of tissues and dragged them all back to my palace, which now seemed so empty and meaningless. I read and cried, and cried and red until my eyes were so swollen I could barely see. Eventually I fell asleep on a pile of Dummies Guides and when I woke up I knew I had to seek help.
Trouble was, I was all alone. Where could I find a reputable shrink to ease my self-doubt?