fancying myself a writer

I've always fancied myself a writer...that is, in my head. This secret desire of mine stems from the fact that being a writer would be the most.amazing.job.ever. Seriously, think about it:

1. if you're awesome (like I would be, obv) you would get a fat advance before you've actually DONE anything (!!!)

2. working in your pajamas and not showering for days without anyone being the wiser

3. the ability to drop the excuse, "would looove to chat, but I have a meeting with my publisher..." with authenticity [read: believable lie] when you run into an acquaintance you were desperately attempting to avoid eye contact with while out and about (I'll touch on this at a later date...worst.fear.ever.)

4. developing a drinking problem and lightly brushing off interventions by blaming said alcoholism as part of the creative process.

5. saying and writing nonsensical things without scrutiny since, you never know, after I die it could be g.e.n.i.u.s.

5 1/2. Whenever I say the word genius I invariably think of the restaurant scene in the movie, Mr. Deeds, when the obese opera singer responds to one of Adam Sandler's card ideas with an operatic bellowing of, "Genius! Genius! Genius!". [side note: "operatic" is possibly, and most likely, a word I just made up]. Also, the fact that I regularly think of an Adam Sandler movie when I hear the word genius is solid evidence that when I die I will never be considered anything other than dead. (whaaa whaaaa)

In fact, as far as I can tell, the only downside of being a writer is the actual writing. As you may have noticed, I get side tracked and have trouble making a point. While this is, clearly, part of my charm, it's not necessarily the most ideal trait when your occupation is to form a cohesive story, thought, sentence, etc... Besides that, I'm perfect for the job.

My only real experience with writing has been when forced in school and also a brief stint with a journal a few years back while searching for a "hobby" that didn't include drinking or spending money. Needless to say, the journal was a bust. Most of my effort was put into impressing the people that might happen upon my journal in the event of my untimely death. I pictured friends, loved ones, historians, etc. thumbing through my leather bound journal (reality check: mine was bound in light green plastic and purchased at Target) and musing over my well thought out entries and witticisms. I also found myself recounting events in the way that I wished I had behaved as opposed to what actually happened. Petty fights with my boyfriend became an opportunity for me to paint my then-boyfriend as an un-evolved liar (he was) and to portray myself as clear-minded, rational, and fair (I'm not) to the point that, looking back, boardered on Transcendentalism. The worst part is that I was aware of all of this during the actual act of writing in my journal. Something is deeply wrong with me.

Don't judge me for my unrealistic aspirations. When I die, this may all be considered genius (genius! genius! genius!).