Sometimes you gotta wonder about how a man who's buried all possibility of self-reflection reacts to a day like that. Like the next morning when he's clumsily slathering on orange clown paint in front of the mirror, and he accidentally catches the reflection of his dead eyes looking back at himself, is there the faintest stirring of anything, even just a vague sensation that all of his choices have led him to become the friendless, unloved husk of a human staring down the twilight of his existence?