Guy walks into a party, his life’s dream made real on his back.   He’s been carrying this dream made real so long, unable to give it the food it needs, that the dream is looking greenish, giving off a foul odor, wreathed in flies.  He’s carrying a decomposing cadaver on his back, its face frozen in the agony of its slow death.

“Why are these freaks looking at me like that?” the guy wonders as friends and acquaintances give sickened smiles and skitter away like well-dressed crabs.   He’s used to the weight, and the smell, which has been slowly gathering over several years, is something he doesn’t really notice, assumes is just the smell of this sometimes putrid world itself.

Poor bastard.

As for me, I have an appointment with a business consultant today that I have to prepare for, if you will excuse me.