I've been thinking recently, (actually, my entire adult life,) how wonderful it would be if I were a celebrity. It's never really mattered what talent brings on my status as a celebrity, I've just always aspired to be one. Recently the vehicle to superstardom I've daydreamed about has been the possibility of Oprah Winfrey randomly finding my blog and doing her first "Blog Club," like she did the book club, and naming me the blog of the month. That would be a sure bet to ensure my celebrity status.
This is sick and twisted, I know, but you think about it to. Don't lie. (Or at least, humor me.)
Why is this the case? I think I just want people to think my life is interesting. But today, for a couple of seconds, I lost this desire. I realized how bored and disappointed people would be with finding out about my life. I had the day off and here's what I did:
Woke up, drank coffee and had an English Muffin with Fig Preserves.
Watched 20 minutes of the Today Show and thought, "I sure do miss Katie Couric," then turned it off.
Walked the dog.
Contemplated what to do with the day.
Sat on the couch for around a half-hour, wondering about the possibilities.
Went to work to order a sign for a booksigning.
Went to Panera for more coffee, a bagel (WITH honey walnut cream cheese.)
Wrote some random shit located just below this posted.
Went and bought a shirt from Old Navy on the clearance rack. ($2.98)
Came back home.
More sitting on the couch.
Mowed the yard.
Went to Happy Hour.
Layed in bed wishing the neighbor's Halloween Party would quiet down a bit.
This is not stuff for the pages of People Magazine.