You might assume there's an easy fix: get Timmy to step outside for a moment, say, then lock the door behind him. The problem is that Timmy is a total and utter homebody. He never leaves. He doesn't go outside, he doesn't talk to anyone, he doesn't visit new places, he doesn't do new things. Timmy's ideal evening is to hunker down with a thick-crust Hawaiian pizza, play old video games on emulators and hope his phone doesn't ring.
Oh, Timmy loves him some hunkering down — believe that. It's his response to everything. Wow, look at that turbulent economy. "Perfect time to hunker down!" Hey, going to this party might be interesting. "Wouldn't you rather hunker down?" How about a run? "Oh, let's hunker down instead." There's a lot to do today, so I'd better get out of bed early! "But it's a lot more comfortable hunkering down under these covers!" Timmy doesn't realize that, in the entirety of recorded human history, "hunkering down" has never lead to success, but man, does he lobby for it.
The fact that Timmy hates humanity is part of this. Well, hate probably makes for an overstatement; it's more like he feels infinitely superior to the rest of humanity, yet also deeply fears it. He's absolutely convinced that most other people are primed and ready to laugh at him — he fears embarrassment more than a bullet — and he's pretty sure that the ones who won't are morons, proselytizing cultists or slicksters with something to sell.
Timmy's animus toward humanity is as mine toward him, but unlike his, mine is well-earned. I don't know how or why he moved into my brain in the first place, but he's been there since day one, moping around and blubbering his endless, ever sadder litany of discouragements, excuses and cop-outs. There is one activity — one activity — Timmy is good at, just one area where he exercises any imagination whatsoever: producing nervous cornucopias of reasons why things won't work.
I've come to understand that Timmy can't function without ironclad certainty. He knows it will always "work" to lay in bed, to flip through magazines, to scarf down cereal, to aimlessly wander the internet, so he's always game to do that sort of stuff. Timmy's only happy — as happy as he ever gets, which still seems kind of depressed — when there is no chance of failure, which also means there is no chance of meaningful success. (But he tries not to think about that last part.)
But dare I propose a task that might not go as planned, that loathsome sad-sack voice always chimes right in. "But Colin, if you shoot a movie, you have to find actors! What if you can't find actors?" "But Colin, if you start that writing project, it might take a long time! What if there's a more comfortable use of that time?" "But Colin, if you go to that interesting part of the world, you won't know anyone there! What if you need goods or services?" Solo endeavors Timmy finds dicey enough, but when other people are involved, he simply assigns catastrophic failure a P of 1.
Intellectually, I know there is no failure except failing yourself. And I believe it. But tell that to Timmy! See, this is precisely why I envy people who don't have to share their brains with any whiny freeloaders, any pathetic intracranial hikikomoris like mine. It goes without saying that he'll never, ever relocate of his own volition, since the kingdom of nature knows no grip as tenacious as Timmy's on the nearest, easiest sources of food, shelter and satisfaction, no matter how meager the streams of all three. I truly believe his highest aspiration is to nothing more than a painless life, prolonged as far as possible, followed by a swift, merciful death. (But then, why delay the death?)
Though Timmy would never actually try to make anything — too much risk — he does seem to enjoy dreaming about making things. He's basically lost in reverie all day; you might say that he exists, biologically speaking, as nothing more than a reverie support system. This is the perfect "experience" for him, since he gets all the imagined glory in scenarios that admit no deviation from his plan. Oh, the great works he's made in these dreams. Oh, the accolades he's received.
The only real thing Timmy has ever built — and it's a hell of a stretch even to call it real — is a protective structure of B.S. around himself. Each block of this B.S. is different, and differently self-aggrandizing: "Timmy is smart." "Timmy is creative." "Timmy is funny." "Timmy is well-liked." But these cannot be put to the test; were any part of this shield to come into contact with reality, the whole thing would shatter like sugar glass. (And what is embarrassment, Timmy's most feared of all conditions, but a blow on one's self-built, self-regarding B.S. wall?) Hence Timmy's avoidance of as much of the world as possible, any element of which could potentially harm the trumped-up personal identity that buoys his fantasies. This enables him to do what is obviously just replicating the condition of the womb, where no action is necessary, no interaction is necessary and no is reaction necessary — a state of pure receptivity — while believing that he isn't.
Timmy and I used to get along a lot better when I was a kid, perhaps because he's so deeply childish himself. Whether it was the sneaky effectiveness of peer pressure or just the pure credulity of youth, I often took his mewling words as gospel. Could it even be possible to tally all he convinced me not to do? "Don't write that, young Colin. It could turn out to be embarrassing. Don't talk to that person. What if it's embarrassing? Don't go there; you could get embarrassed. Ah, jeez, don't even think about attempting to play that instrument or learn than language or associate with those people or do that sport. Consider the potential embarrassment! Just get yourself a cheese dog, play some computer games and try your best to hide."
I know others who have one of Timmy's relatives — and he comes from a teeming brood of them — clinging for dear life to a long-term least on a corner of their minds. To a homunculus, these brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins are just as dour, just as pessimistic, just as frightened, just as mediocre as Timmy. Some of the hosts are just as irritated as I am. Some are right now potting ways to kill their unwanted tenant. (Some seem to have already pulled off the job, though, for obvious reasons, they won't tell me if or exactly how they did it.) But you know what's the saddest part of all this? Some people have made peace with their own Timmy equivalents. You know what they call them? "Sensible." "Practical." "Prudent." "The voice of reason."