rose-colored

Have you ever wanted to run away?

Not, like, run away run away, but just...disappear for a while. Just so you know someone's paying attention.

I ran away, though. Really. Disappeared into a car that followed me home (because I wanted it to, that is), and never looked back. I thought I dropped my phone, for a moment, but of course, independent of the huge purse I used to carry at the time, I was just sitting on it such that it disappeared into the seat. Because nothing bad ever happens to this guy.

"We have to go back!"

"We can't go back!"

That's the title of the movie my friend said we should make about me. About me running away. About me having to run away. About me wanting to run away. About me realizing that my whole life has been a lie, in various ways, and I have to rip it out and tear it up and build it back from nothing, or else see a scaffold that falls over into nothing when I look at it sideways.

Nothing. Nothing bad ever happens to this guy because nothing ever happens to this guy.

Wait, I read it upside down.

Everything always happens to this guy. This guy is the main character.

This guy's got tax fraud. This guy's got anonymous admirers in the audience. This guy's got two Wasian little sisters. This guy's got lesbian aunts he never knew existed. This guy's got more grandpas than anyone could ever imagine. This guy's got a consumer sports car and a pair of platform combat boots. This guy's got a sweet potato that he thought was a handwarmer. This guy's got bitches in every orchestra. This guy plays the concert without touching the music. This guy got his license from Walmart and backs into every parking space. This guy runs his job like the fire department. This guy's got stalkers. This guy's got knights in shining armor. This guy walks full height through the pit door. This guy dreams in jazz piano. This guy sucks.

"I'm not holding you to a standard, honey!"

(There's my car, going over the dead deer.)

"I would do anything not to see you upset."

(There's the police car parked over its mangled corpse.)

"God, you're a magnet."

(There's the blood where it used to be.)

And then we fade to black. Or cut. Probably cut. Just like what happened to the deer.

"You know you're special, right?"

"I...try not to believe it."

"Yeah, yeah, it's good not to believe your own press, but you know it, right?"