I have a narrator who follows me around. He's sarcastic and dry, and occasionally mean to me and others. And usually, I'm the only one who can hear him.
Okay -- he's me. He's my internal monologue. Fortunately, I keep him to myself most of the time. (This is fortunate, because as I said, he's quite mean at times.) He makes me feel like I really do live in a movie.
I'm not quite sure what genre it is. Probably some kind of mix between Romantic Comedy and Film Noir. Let's call it "Romantic Noir." It's Laura meets Sleepless in Seattle. It's Chinatown meets When Harry Met Sally. It's Play It Again, Sam meets...huh...okay -- maybe it's just some version of Play It Again, Sam.
And now my inner-narrator is making sarcastic comments about me being Woody Allen -- and not in a positive way. My narrator says I'm not as funny, I have worse luck with women, and most certainly don't have his paycheck. At least I'm better looking. And dress nicer...sometimes.
And I am definitely a better musician.
Without further ado: