Call me crazy, but...

My psychologist says I know the difference between fantasy and reality, I just prefer fantasy.

Maybe it's because I told her I want to be a munkee when I grow up.

But I suspect it has something to do with my overactive imagination.

I've always loved creating little scenarios in my mind, stories I think myself to sleep with, or imagine while I'm driving on a long trip. Some of them turn into writing - My favorite script was based on a dream I had, and I've used many characters from my imaginary plays in my "real" works.

I love things that stretch my imagination, I love to pretend. Not like kinky role-playing sex pretend, but like playing D&D - I love to imagine I'm a big sword-swinging fighter, slaying monsters and plundering gold.

It's much more exciting than being a medium-sized, red-pen-wielding copy editor, slaying typos and struggling to pay the mortgage.

Part of it's my inner child screaming to be let out, I suspect. I was always much happier when I was a boy, whether it's because of some postpubescent chemical imbalance or what, I don't know.

But the happiest days of my life were my innocent ones, playing with my "Star Wars" toys and GI Joes and imaging I was the big hero saving the world. Boy, the scenarios I came up with then. I probably could've made a whole "Star Wars" film of my own. And judging from Episodes I and II, maybe I should've. Though Ep. III was good.

I guess we all want to be heroes in some way. I've never had the chance. If I ever get it, I hope I rise to the occasion. I always do in my fantasy world. Maybe that's why I prefer it. I can be whatever I want, and I never fail. I always slay the beast, I always get the girl, and everything is always just and fair and right.

Oddly, a lot of my protagonists are women. I suppose I'm in touch with my feminine side, or perhaps I'm really a male lesbian. (As I was joking the other day, I'm attracted to girls, but I envy their clothing options.) I mean, I'm something of an alpha-male personality (that whole sports-and-violence thing), so I don't have a real explanation. Maybe I'm just fascinated with women. I sure as hell don't understand them.

It's not that I can't cope with reality. I cope with reality every day. I guess I'm just bored by it. Maybe I have too much brain for focusing on the here and now, and I have to keep the rest occupied. Maybe I just wish things were different. I don't know. That seems to speak to a kind of dissatisfaction, and while there is always dissatisfaction (unless maybe you're Hugh Hefner), it's not like my life sucks. It's pretty good.

Maybe I've just been alone, talking to Mookie (my stuffed monkey), too long. Got cabin fever or gone stir-crazy or whatever.

Maybe I just don't have the patience to see that someday my life will be exciting and wonderful - I just have to work my way there.

Or maybe I really do just want to be a little tiny bunnymunkee, scampering and playing and never knowing all the bad things that can happen, never worrying that more will happen and I won't be able to do anything about it, never being bored, or restless, or sad.

I hope I live long enough to go to the moon. I'll keep hoping.

Links:
You know what, I ran a Google search on "psychology reality vs. fantasy" and everything I found was about how D&D makes you into a killer. So I'm not putting up any links. I play D&D every month and the only thing I ever killed that was bigger than a spider was a raccoon I hit with my car on a dark country road late one night.

Well, there was that disputed rabbit. But I say, as that twit from Aruba said, no body, no murder. Blood and fur in the road does not a bunny corpse make.