I wish I was an idiot savante, minus the idot part. Imagine being able to tickle the keys of any grand piano with Mozart’s 19th symphony or strutting into a Las Vegas casino, counting all the cards, and strolling out with millions or maybe Tom Cruise could be your brother. But I’m not Rainman, though I am an idiot savante, minus the savante part.
I try to picture myself inventing the paper clip, or perhaps the glue on the back of a post-it-note. That would be smart. I try not to picture myself with a paper clip, scrapping a tin pipe for resin, or sniffing a post-it-note’s glue to get high. That would be more realistic. I prefer to imagine the fantastic. Walking around the financial district of San Francisco with a leather suitcase filled with protocol pamphlets on Wells Fargo’s auditing department. That would be fantastic. Somewhere along the lines of Falcor, the luck dragon in The Neverending Story, a flying white Dachsun, who looks more like he should belong inside a hot dog than amongst the clouds. Sitting in my station wagon, stealing wireless from the local library, and looking for another job, more money to pay for another pair of climbing shoes. That would be realistic. Too bad reality can not become the fantastic.
I am epicing. I have no money. I am not working enough. The future looks grim. This is me festering.