For the most part, I just enjoy the ride. I sat back, relaxing in the comfort of his skull and watching him stumble through life. I particularly love awkwardness. His awkwardness, the awkwardness of those he surrounds himself with. The perverse awkwardness of contemporary human life.
I do step forward from time to time. I help him pick out ties. I remind him to polish his damn boots. I am part of him, after all. I’m not going to possess a body that wears a brown belt with black shoes. I may be a demon, but I’m not a monster.
He thinks he’s so smart. It is as charming as it is ridiculous. I’m the smart one. He reads just reads a lot of Wikipedia. Every inspired bon mot or witty rejoinder he ever had came from me.
Still, he occasionally has good taste or at least he’s learned some discernment from me. All those faux mousy girls, dropping hints and double entendre like so many handkerchiefs. They are desperate for someone to notice how needy they are and most people are completely oblivious. He scoops them up by the thick handfuls. I’m often shocked at how well he does.
When he gets them alone, though, that’s when I get to take command. That’s when I gain full control of his body and inevitably their bodies.
A man can only do so much, after all. The really dirty deeds are the devil’s work. And I am hardworking when I want to be.
Oh, and those little hours in the dark keep me going. I can hold them close through the dull hours in the office or wading through bills or snoring through family functions.
My boy is not perfect, but he is mine and I make sure we both get what we want. He gets his hands on pretty things and the devil gets his due.