With his injured back, Imaginary Keith has nothing better to do then sit in the recliner and think up questions.  I can’t pass through the living room without some sort of assault.

“They should invent sincerity prositutes.  No sex or anything.  I should be able to buy myself an hour or two of sincerity whenever I’m in the mood.”

“I think it’s called Oprah.  It’ll be on in an hour or so.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”  Imaginary Keith has his mind set on talking, not listening.

“Of course, you couldn’t call them prostitutes.  You do that and . . WHAM . . everyone’s thinking sex, not sincerity.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.  Sincerity, mankind’s second oldest profession.”  The recliner is too comfortable.  Less comfort would mean less thinking, more wincing.  The way life was meant to be.  Pain and suffering.  Few Christians know this, but Satan’s second trick, after Eve and the apple, was to lure Adam into a recliner.  Nothing would have made God madder then to see Adam sitting there, butt-naked in a recliner, doing nothing.  I give Imaginary Keith’s recliner a little nudge.

“Aaayyy!  Knock it off!  You trying to kill me?”  See, I think.  Now life is getting back on track.

“I should be able to pick up that phone, dial a number, and watch sincerity come strolling through that door within the hour.  That would be civilized living.”

“I’d call it therapy.  It’s only a phone call away.  Except we can’t afford it right now, so you’ll just have to talk to me.”  I give the chair another bump.

“Aay!  Are you doing that on purpose?”

“No, of course not.”

“You’re trying to make me lose my train of thought, aren’t you?  Go ahead, but I think I’m onto something.”

“Are you sure this isn’t just about sex?”

“Sex?  No, no, no.  Of course not.  I’m talking sincerity.  Sex is different.  You know that.”

“You mean it’d cost extra.”

“Fuck off.  Can’t you see I’m in pain here.”