Call us Quasimodo.
We had decided that we were, in Greek dramatic parlance, a "tragic personage." After all, were we not flawed in character? Did we not look in the mirror one morning and discover that we were not heroic (a true coward, in some ways)? Mean and petty. Spiteful. We had even lusted in our hearts. Still do.
"Look how disfigured we are," we said to the Formidable Companion. We pointed to a pimple on our nose.
And so we bid farewell to everything that was beautiful and pleasing.
"We'll be taking our meals up in the attic," we announced to the Formidable Companion. "We intend to live there, up among the rafters and the birds and the cathedral bells. And the gargoyles. Just like Charles Laughton did. And Lon Chaney before him."
"Our friends, the gargoyles," we continued. "Mute witnesses to our wasted ways."
We were in high gear now.
"Nothing up there but some Christmas decorations," the Formidable Companion said.
"Ah, Christmas!" we cried. "How we'll miss it so."
"I'm off to work," she said.