A Critical Review

You get to have a life review when you die - or so I am told. The hope of a do-over has me living here still on this tiny blue planet on the far edge of nowhere, with the thought of endless second chances. Supposedly, when the movie of my life plays out its going to be critiqued, It will be hard to look away, to hum quietly to myself during the embarrassing stuff pretending it wasn’t me, just some bad actor, in a B-movie. Of course I will play down the good, smugness can take you only so far. Meanwhile my search for God continues. Perhaps he is a ghost in my movie, perhaps the Creator wrote the script, meaning again – not my fault. I hope I get a chance to self-edit, to cut out the boring, the mediocre, the addictive crap, erasing forever the jerk and the fool. I don’t know why all those heart-busting tragedies, had to be recorded, I’m more suited to light comedy. I want that ghostwriter of my story to admit he exaggerated, to confess that I was never really there in that long-winded plot; that I was the sole audience in his empty theater detached from the muddle of a life, a play that he deliberately screwed up just to make me look bad.