"I can't help you. You know I can't. I feel like you're asking for help just so you can remind me of my disconnection from the world. I'm a friend, too, you know. I'm not just a pretty face on the television."
"We don't call it television anymore, we just say TV... But no, I don't think you're out of touch. I think you're wonderfully insightful."
In my haste to reassure him, I reached toward Ron's arm, upsetting our two-gallon coffee bowl in the process. Hot java went everywhere, the creeping edges of the puddle forming the shape of a stegosaurus. Ron began to weep.
"Am I going to be like that dinosaur?" He sobbed. "Am I going to be extinct because I'm no longer fit for this world? Is my brain the size of a pea?"
After that, I left. I was trying to write the perfect story, not comfort an overemotional newscaster with two first names.