I was about to throw myself through a plate-glass window when the telephone rang. I answered saying, "Hi. No one's home," and hung up.

Two minutes later it rang again. This time I said, "Foo-whin-yaa-nee," annunciating clearly so they'd understand, then slammed down the receiver.

The morning had not begun auspiciously. Several of my teeth had fallen down the drain. Hair kept coming out in fistfuls. When I opened the blinds to look outside, I saw the neighbors' houses had been blown up by explosives. All the local dogs were dead. In the pit of my stomach I had a terrible feeling that I was somehow responsible.

The blinds unsheathed a splendorous, sunny day. "At least the weather's holding," I sighed, and wept a few tears of joy. Then I snorted. Soon, I was laughing uncontrollably. The morning passed in this way, until the phone rang again, and I grabbed it with my teeth.

On the other end someone said, "We are calling to inform you that the circumstances that have led to the creation of your opulently volatile emotional nature and the dangerously complex landscape of your mind might bear a methodical, reasoned examination at this time if you ever wish to achieve any sense of success or social stability in this feeble, transient life."

"I'm sorry," I replied coolly, "but I don't accept sales calls. Can you please take me off your list?"

I hung up and minced into the kitchen, greatly perturbed. What kind of fool did they take me for? Soon I'd prepared an elaborate breakfast: Orange juice, eggs, fruit salad, grits, biscuits and gravy, bacon, a couple of pancakes and six cups of coffee. I ate, and felt much better. The kingdom of heaven was snaking through my veins, in fact. Music covered the earth. I changed into a pair of shorts, grabbed a lawn chair and dashed outside to get myself a tan.