Are you protecting me from something? If so, don't worry about me. I've been whistling past the graveyard for the past seven years, ever since I first set foot on a stage, resolute to do the material that needed doing. I've had a pretty good run. If I'm not dead or in prison by now, I must know what I'm doing. (There is a method to my seeming madness, you know.)
And what would I do with my time otherwise? Remember: One wishes that his life can be of use to others. I would rather die tomorrow having accomplished something than to die of a heart attack in ten years, crawling across the floor in one futile, final reach for the phone.
Do you remember my doctor friend Bob? When he learned he was dying of leukemia, he decided that he would buy himself a new motorcycle. Fully loaded, eight-hundred-thousand horsepower or whatever, every last bit of chrome you could possibly buy.
His girlfriend clucked at the idea. She knew that he would eventually suffer from blackouts. She didn't want him getting hurt on a motorcycle.
Bob valued my opinion. He asked for it. I said, "Bob, I would rather see you get your brains smeared all over the road under an eighteen-wheeler than to see you die in a bed."
And his eyes sparkled and he smiled a big ol' grin and he said, "Yeah." --Not just "yeah," but a yeah that plainly dripped with enthusiasm and complete agreement: sparkling eyes, big ol' grin, and a big, fat "yeaaah!"
So if your silence is out of a concern for me, don't worry.
...I've always got somethin' up my sleeve, don't I?
Let me fix this. Please?