My life is a constant stream of voiceovers connecting events that have happened with those that certainly should have happened, my mind a vindictive narrator who knows too much and acts far too often.

I can’t escape it.

I thought maybe with the right medication. But his voice just gets louder? And the things he says. Sometimes he speaks so loud that the people around me must know. The Subway diet ain’t doing you any good fatty. They have to know. Your breasts are buoys. They don’t let on that they know, but they know.

I’m stepping off a curb. I’m staring passively at a sexy temptress in trendy clothes, the basic lack thereof being of the utmost significance. I wonder if she’s too beautiful to talk to. Is anyone too beautiful to talk to?

Tell her you’re one of those ‘Make a Wish’ kids. She might let you touch her boobies.

“I’m 27!” I said aloud.

“Good for you,” the sexy temptress shot back as she walked past. “That’s a real fucking achievement.”

Did I mention that I hate my narrator?