Lately I've been thinking about how much fun it would be to write an autobiography. I can imagine my great great great granddaughter reading it to her children. And they would all be enraptured by my stunning life story. They would feel like they know me. And then when we all meet in the afterlife they'll say, "You had such an awesome life - you're amazing - I love you most out of all my dead and really old ancestors!" And then we'd high five.
Except that would mean I'd have to really embellish my past. It's not that I didn't have a thrilling and exciting childhood. Because it was. Thrilling. Involving things like world renowned bike riding skills. And ninjas. (At least that's what the autobiography will say.)
Of course I'd have to omit my geek phase (that may or may not still be happening....)
And I would never mention any of the embarrassing things that happened. Like the time I peed my pants in third grade. (Even though it wasn't entirely my fault because I had already developed public-restroom-phobia by that age and didn't ask for the bathroom pass until I was on the verge of bursting, which also happened to be in the middle of a project so I wasn't excused until I was done, and then didn't want to get in trouble in for running in the halls, therefore making it inside the closed bathroom stall before I peed...while still wearing pants. The whole thing left me morbidly humiliated, and therefore should never be leaked to the general public. "Leaked" get it? Pee. Leak.......)
There's really only one major thing that's keeping me from writing this amazing autobiography: it would have a really stupid ending.
Unless I want to completely make up the rest of my life, the last paragraph would basically look like this:
Nearing the eve of her 30th birthday (in 9 months - I'M STILL YOUNG) Melissa lived in a constant state of chaos. With children screaming at her feet, flinging all manner of boogers and left shoes, the woman was tired, fat, wrinkled and in horrible need of a haircut. The split ends she had been harboring for years were bad enough to put even non-trendy viewers into lasting, shock induced comas. Her brain being even more frazzled than the tips of her hair could no longer process simple information, like on which corner Krispy Kreme Doughnuts was located. The many hours she sat at the computer turned her children into ragged homeless wanderers seeking out anyone who would comply to their 300th command for a snack, and also turned her butt into a wide expanse that frightened desk chairs everywhere. She also didn't shower.
See, horrible ending. There would be no after life high fives if that's how I wrap things up.
(Did you notice? My autobiography would be written in third person. Because I think it would be fun to talk about myself like Elmo does. Or The Rock.)
Maybe what I should do, for posterity's sake, is kill myself off at age 22, in some heroic act of.....heroism. Since that was back before my butt scared desk chairs or the wrinkles started forming. Unless, of course, I can somehow work those ninjas back in.