Photo by Christian Wiediger on Unsplash

I’ve been dead a few times. Three I think. A vet. A physiotherapist. A town council person. My favorite is a Rockette. That’s new. A divorce attorney. I thought that would come in handy a few times. She wanted all of my domains but I never gave them to her. Vice President of a New Zealand University and just a lady passing by asked if I can stand the chilled season for much longer by Fred Mitchell of the Darlington Times. I think I said, “I don’t mind it as I travel to Miami this time of year.”

Today I popped up getting an FAA Degree with a Benz Briggs. I’m going to guess it’s finally acknowledging I’m Fantastic At Anything and only Benz and I are qualified.

Before I was married there was no one like me. My last name meant curly hair in German and I suppose everyone changed it to something else more benign after the war. I meet a lot of “curly” but no “curlyhair”. But now that my surname is Taylor I’m all over the internet.

I’ve had a dozen or so boring lives. I suspect the physiotherapist in upstate New York probably wishes she had mine. The obituaries are the hardest. It only confirms people are terrible writers when grieving. Or terrible writers all the time and then forced to do an assignment of strewing words together for someone else. No ones life is that boring and summed up so precise that it boils down to liking Canasta and walking their two terriers. I know how much pressure that is. I’ve written two in the past year and I write for a profession.

I heard if you Google yourself too much you will eventually find your own obituary and realize you’re dead. If that’s the case I’m going to write mine now so everyone knows I’m definitely not on my town council (I’ll have to think about that there are some things about the traffic flow I’d like to discuss) or a Rockette (I’ll have to think about that too, my parents were great dancers) or someone who travels to Miami this time of year. (I forgot I’m going to Ft. Lauderdale over Christmas because I mind the rain.)



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Helene Taylor

Screenwriter. Playwright. Prose. Poetry. Musings. Chronic curiosity. Story Engine. Research fiend. Cynical Gen X slacker. www.helenetaylor.ca