Life is a story.

Everyone has a story. Some stories are wild and flavourful and some are flat and repetitive.  Most  others lie somewhere on the scale in between.  I have a friend who adopts others’ stories.  Whether it’s intentional or oblivious adoption, I have no idea.  I do think there may be a chromosomal story-stealing gene out there just waiting to be discovered. I suppose one could take the theft of a story as a compliment, but it’s something I’ve never been able to master.  It still feels like some paperless form of identity theft.  It is for this reason that I try to limit contact with story stealers, but a recent brush with one got me thinking about why they do it.

I don’t see the fun in adopting a story.  Why have someone think that you did something really cool?  Why not just go out and actually do something really cool? All told, my story probably lies somewhere along the flat and repetitive line, with some fascinating blips along the way.  Sometimes I find myself in the most peculiar situations, wondering how I came to be in a particular chapter in my life, like when I was water fasted in Panama, or the time I found myself underneath a blue minivan hoping desperately that my Vespa would be fit to ride once I’d managed to get it upright.  It wasn’t, but I was relatively unscathed.

I can’t wait to see where my story leads.

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