Charlie Sheen.

The words are becoming a synonym for “foolish, delusional, grandiose addict.”

He wants us to fear not. The “rock star from Mars” has “flipped a switch” and cured himself “with his own mind” of the decades-long malady that has caused him to accidentally shoot one woman while treating others as though they were nothing but Kleenex on the receiving end of his fantasy life. Funny, then, how he looks so terribly unwell.

What fun for the rest of us to watch the man disintegrate under the weight of his own man-child madness.

I haven’t checked, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Las Vegas handicappers were laying wagers on how long this guy has got to live. Where there is breath there is hope, they tell us, and Sheen appears to be breathing on his own. So he is not necessarily a lost cause.

But if someone were to convince me to lay a $20 bill on the table and guess how long it will be, my guess would be six months. Six months more, and no more Charlie Sheen.

Of course, while I have no particular fondness for Sheen or his body of work, I’d be happy to be wrong about that. If Sheen himself would like me to be wrong about it, he might want to rethink his membership in that “bootleg cult” (AA) that he has so stupidly condemned.

He knows enough about his alcoholism to know this. He is practically a test case for one of that group’s biggest requirements for qualification.

His is a “self-will run riot.”

God bless, Mr. Sheen. And good luck to you.