Fantasy Land

I know a place where I can never be the bad guy. Replace me with an Arab who carries a thick accent, a black sari, and indistinct prayer moans from the local mosque. I can see the hick masked in a pointed white hood, only making appearances on tabloid talk shows fighting a bodyguard named "Steve." I do not need to be your everyday spoiled blonde girl who sleeps with 3 men a week that all happen to be each other's friends, and yet, I give off a "next door neighbor" feeling about me.

I know a place where I can never be the hero. Uniformed men with M4s are wildly running in formation, giving each other hand signals to take down terrorists and fathers in suits are performing judo punches to save their loved ones. They crawl and operate and conduct and shoot and pace and smoke and fight and live. My God, do they live! Through rough terrains, thick forrests, sweating offices, and 1994 Jeeps, their brains, brawns, and instinct are their qualities, and all I have to do is watch.

I know a place where I can never be the sidekick. They're heavier than me. They're skinner than me. They're shorter than me. They're older than me. They're younger than me. They're taller than me. They have stronger accents than me. They fall down a lot more than me. I don't have the opportunity to fall because I'm too busy sitting.

In a new form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder related to "Being Someone," I have isolated myself in my own fantasy land, in my own state of insanity where dogs can talk, washed up celebrities are all over peeping tom shows, and a can of AXE can solve any female problem that I've had to deal with the past 20.5 years. I'm sick of being the villain who continually makes confusing and bad decisions. I have the evening news for that. I don't want to be the leader that is looked up to in a time of decision making. I have Jack Bauer for that. I cannot take up any more phone calls when someone "just wants someone to talk to." I have Will and Grace for that. Sick of responsibility, I have embraced a new style of living where my butlers, maids, cooks, and servants are these television programs that do the work of "being someone" for me.

Am I pathetic? Maybe I am...or maybe....I am!