Too Big to Fail

People assured me my shop would succeed. It was too big to fail. The public wouldn't let it collapse. The concept was timely and vital.
I sold hope.
They staggered in, disheveled, unshaven, hunched and beaten. The little bell over the door tinkled and I smiled. Another unfortunate needing my service, another chance to inject positivity into a cloud of pessimism. For a small fee, of course.
I sat on my stool behind a counter, just me and a box of tissue, which I also sold. I was confronted with a whole spectrum of hopelessness. Lots of them were failed writers. Some flitted from diet to diet, some were overweight, short, bald, near sighted, awkward. People with high squeaky voices.
I looked them in the eye, speaking quietly. I was an Italian Billy Graham, sometimes an intense Jack LaLanne, and a male Mother Teresa, holding their hand.
What happened?
Annette Funicello died. That's what happened. If she could die, we were all doomed.
No one accepted my positive attitude. The world was dangerous, cruel and then you die.
I couldn't pay my rent without customers and the shop closed.
Now I'm living in my aunt's basement, using up boxes of tissues.
Wanna buy a stool?