Status Message

H_ started masturbating much before he grew a beard. Every time something bad would happen on a day when H_ had masturbated, he would feel it's a punishment for his crime. If it would rain during a match, it was his fault. If the national team lost, he was responsible. God was so against his shagging that once he flooded the city roads to fail him in the yearly exam. Often H_ complained that He should be much lenient because what else was a young boy supposed to do to survive the stress. Often, on better days, H_ laughed at the absurdity of his own idea that God decided what to do with the world based on his jerking off.
However, as he grew up, things changed. The idea was no more absurd. The possibility that the world did not rotate about him became a far-fetched fantasy. The universe was pushed to the background whose only role was to accentuate his performance. Thousands of years of civilization were condensed to give him a past. Everyone else became a character in his magnum opus, living his or her life in some sub-plot, which, if did not feed into the main plot, became tiresome burden. He fell in love and had relationships only so that he could feel good about his compassionate nature. He would be kind to others because it assured him of his benevolence. He would find himself responsible for wrong-doings far beyond his reach only because he could even use his guilt to satisfy his super-ego. He praised God in one breath so that he could reduce him to a clerk who kept his books, in the next.
Often it would shock him to find that some other people considered themselves as protagonist of some other story and an equal to him. He was struck by the sheer dumbness of these people who were blind to his obvious greatness. That his life was not as important and interesting to them as to himself was almost annoying. In every field in which he would do well, he knew he deserved to be winner because of his inherent qualities. In all others, where he was bad, he was so because some kind of morality forbade him from stooping too low, like others did, to succeed and thereby he still was a winner. Satan would busy himself setting traps for him and God would spend much of his energy saving him. Both camps needed him.
Then one day, to his utter dismay, he died. Without any pomp or show. It was so unbecoming of a hero like him to die like that. Not fighting to defend honour, not at the end, not at dusk, not in slow motion with sad music in background, not even a gruesome murder (how much he would have loved someone to hate him like that! ), but just like that. In sleep, with mouth unceremoniously open and eyes flung apart.