Me, Only Better
I spend a lot of time doing nothing. I think a lot, but that doesn't get me very far. What do I think about? Women, life, happiness, getting laid, falling in love, flirting, though not necessarily in that order. Mostly my thoughts involve fictional characters that are only marginally based on me. They're me, but cooler, prettier, stronger, better educated, and more articulate. They are also apparently a lot luckier than me because they routinely get hit on, asked out, flirted with, and laid. They also usually have at least one other character who professes her undying love and devotion. Ok, so there isn't much that we (me and the characters based on me) have in common. However, we do all live in Austin (at least currently), drive a beat up 2005 Nissan Xterra, listen to country music, and write (though the others are much more successful than me).
Maybe one day I will get to live one of my stories. Of course, I have this not-so-irrational fear that if I think it, it'll never happen. It's not like I'm psychic or anything. I'm not. Not at all. I can occasionally read a mind or two (though not as well as the characters based on me), but it's nothing life-altering. Even though thoughts can occasionally become things for my fictional characters, I have no illusions that anything like that will happen in real life. Now some of my stories, the ones involving my untimely death, disease, or dismemberment, might work in my favor. I may in fact end up living forever. Of course, it'll be a hugely boring life. Truly, the only exciting thing in my life are my stories. That I have no chance of ever living.
So, yeah... I've been doing this as long as I can remember. The stories have changed over the years, but the protagonist is always the same. Me. Sort of. Only better, as stated above. As far as I can remember, none of my stories have ever come to life. They are pure fantasy. We probably have a better chance of seeing a dragon, Hobbit, or unicorn walking down the street in South Austin. I guess it's okay. At the very least, I'm used to it after more than three decades.
Sometimes I think that maybe if I got out of my head and actually lived, my life would be more exciting. What if I actually did something instead of thinking about someone like myself, only better, doing something? Even better, what if I wrote down some of these stories and found someone willing to publish them? Maybe then a few of my stories would come true. Well, the recent ones. About me (or someone like me) being a published author who has someone confess her undying love and devotion. Or maybe just being a published author who gets laid. Sure, love and devotion can wait.
Eh, it's a lot safer here in my head. And anything can happen. I can write, erase, write again, and erase again until I get it just right. That's probably why I am a better me in my stories. It's easy to be cooler, prettier, stronger, better educated, and more articulate when you are written and re-written until you are perfect. I think I'll stick with that. I like the me in my head a lot better than the real me. And I get to get laid every now and again. That's a definite improvement.
Maybe one day I will get to live one of my stories. Of course, I have this not-so-irrational fear that if I think it, it'll never happen. It's not like I'm psychic or anything. I'm not. Not at all. I can occasionally read a mind or two (though not as well as the characters based on me), but it's nothing life-altering. Even though thoughts can occasionally become things for my fictional characters, I have no illusions that anything like that will happen in real life. Now some of my stories, the ones involving my untimely death, disease, or dismemberment, might work in my favor. I may in fact end up living forever. Of course, it'll be a hugely boring life. Truly, the only exciting thing in my life are my stories. That I have no chance of ever living.
So, yeah... I've been doing this as long as I can remember. The stories have changed over the years, but the protagonist is always the same. Me. Sort of. Only better, as stated above. As far as I can remember, none of my stories have ever come to life. They are pure fantasy. We probably have a better chance of seeing a dragon, Hobbit, or unicorn walking down the street in South Austin. I guess it's okay. At the very least, I'm used to it after more than three decades.
Sometimes I think that maybe if I got out of my head and actually lived, my life would be more exciting. What if I actually did something instead of thinking about someone like myself, only better, doing something? Even better, what if I wrote down some of these stories and found someone willing to publish them? Maybe then a few of my stories would come true. Well, the recent ones. About me (or someone like me) being a published author who has someone confess her undying love and devotion. Or maybe just being a published author who gets laid. Sure, love and devotion can wait.
Eh, it's a lot safer here in my head. And anything can happen. I can write, erase, write again, and erase again until I get it just right. That's probably why I am a better me in my stories. It's easy to be cooler, prettier, stronger, better educated, and more articulate when you are written and re-written until you are perfect. I think I'll stick with that. I like the me in my head a lot better than the real me. And I get to get laid every now and again. That's a definite improvement.
Comments
Post a Comment