Sometimes I sit on the Subway, watching the other straphangers, and I make up stories. Nine times out of ten, they're mundane. That guy looks sad because he's fighting with his boyfriend or that girl seems stressed because she's the CEO of some major company but can't make it to little league. But then, the crazies come out. The world becomes my comic book, and my fellow riders are the characters in some amazingly complicated plot to rule the world. it's kind of awesome actually. I do worry about myself when I move from comic book fantasy to the completely surreal.
I have an antique radio in my front room. It's one of those massive pieces of furniture, circa 1940. I got it for free from the antique shop a block away, and it works. Well, it gets a station, and might get full am band if I fix the tuner. But I'm not too fussed. It's awesome and fun and makes no practical sense in 2011. This only makes me love it more. Earlier tonight I caught myself imagining my radio, anthropomorphizing it even, in a three piece suit, complete with ganster (not gansta- that's different) fedora-type hat and Cigar. It was threatening my microwave that came with the flat, claiming the microwave was an upstart and didn't know the value of hard work. "A baked potato that takes 4 minutes isn't a REAL baked potato!" The microwave, dressed in jeans, a hoodie and emo kid sunglasses, just shrugged in the hipster teen way and pretended to ignore the radio but I could tell it was going to scar the microwave emotionally to the point where it might be trapped in middle management for life due to low self esteem. It would run off to Nowheresville and have an unsatisfying marriage in suburbia. I'd spend my days with a senile old radio muttering away in the corner about the Benny Goodman Orchestra and how no one appreciates Bakelite and quality wooden casing anymore.
I can't tell if I'm asleep or my downstairs neighbour just smokes too much weed and it filters up through the floorboards.
