I was watching a new show on television the other night. The main character of the show was explaining to his audience that he often thinks of his life as a movie. It struck a cord with me. I often think of my life as a story, a boring story; but a story none the less. I am not necessarily interested in earning a lot of money. I don’t think I yearn for attention. I don’t seek thrills. All the same, I want my life to be interesting. When all is said and done I hope someone could at least say, “Hum, that was something.” I think the reason I have been so happy since college is because I have an audience for my life. I enjoy sharing my life with Cheryl because she seems to enjoy being with me. That might seem to be a given for a married couple, but I don’t think it is. I hear one story after another about married couples that suffer through each other’s company. Some divorce, some stick it out, but they all share a festering contempt for the person they live with. My life with Cheryl is not the sequel to Pretty Woman. It is my own story and I like it.

Listening to music, typing what ever comes to mind. The music drives your fingers to a beat. Nothing in particular comes to mind, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a rhythm. Words are spelled wrong. Punctuation is missed. My pounding fingers on the keyboard must be bothering someone. Normally no one can stand my drumming, now I’m doing it constantly, but no one says a thing. My fingers can just fly without complaint. Who would have thought I would enjoy this drive as much as I am. Listen to this crap. It turns out I am that shallow.