That's what he blames his current descent into mental disequilibrium on. And I thought to myself, much as I like him (and this is the reason they used to call him Teflon Charlie), I have the solution to his woes. I think his father should hire a private jet to pick him up from his palatial home and take him to Somalia where he should be left in a refugee camp for, oh, 24 hours should just about do it. Pick him up and when he arrives shell-shocked and catatonic back in America, leave him for another 24 hours and he should be ready to take up his extraordinary life once again.
Because that, really, is the secret to life, the answer to Why are we here? What is the purpose of our existence? Does any of it matter? You know, those daft questions white people ask themselves and their gurus in ashrams. The answer is that life is extraordinary. Just look out the window, or consider your day spent lounging in a Parisian cafe, reading a book in the window-seat of your home, working as a graphic novelist, or eating pigeon pie in Marrakesh. Oh, Charlie, you need to get out more. Somalia awaits.
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