Who Am I?

                Who am I?  It’s an important question I suppose, one that many people have tried to answer.  I give many different answers myself.  Sometimes I call myself a sarcastic asshole; others, number 4 (as in the fourth version of me, supposedly the best).  Crazy is one way to sum it up, or insane if the conversation is hyperbolic enough.  I could call myself a dreamer, but that may not necessarily be true.  I could call myself honest, but I live a lie itself.  I’ve lied to my own girlfriend thus far, and I feel guilty about it now.  That’s kind of heightened by the fact that she may be dumping me later today. 

                There are so many things they’ve told me I’d regret.  I suppose I should.  But then again, had I not done them, I never would have met Dawn.  I suppose it was a choice.  Dawn or my own sanity.  I wasn’t even sure she’d be at the other end of this road, but I’ve taken it, and managed to stumble upon her.

                Now that I’ve gotten off topic, let’s segway back using regret.  I don’t want to lose Dawn.  And so I think it’s time I stopped lying.  And although nobody reads this blog, I figured it would be easier to tell her if I put it down in words first.  I always thought I was a good man, and then came the day that I realized I was shutting the world out, and being ungrateful, prideful, judgmental.  I thought that because I was good, the rest of the world was bad.  It was a sort of melodramatic fantasy I created for myself.

                So who am I?  I’m a guy who watched too many movies.  I believed in the sheer emotional power of them, and the grand stories and the glory and the courage.  All those romantic dramas where the guy almost loses his girl but gets her back at the last second.  And the best part was, they only lasted a few hours.  That sure messes with my head sometimes.  I’ve gotta fuck around down here for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, when they could live out years in 10 minutes or less.  I look forward to every minute with my girlfriend because that is part of the emotional release of my movie.  The days I see her are those times in the movie when you get hope that there will be a happy ending.  School, and homework, and wrestling, and all of that shit I have to deal with every other day of the week are just road blocks; the antagonists working against me, the hero.  It is me against the world, trying to get the girl.  Heaven knows it would be a great storyline for two kids, each with their own passion (mine running, and hers color guard), and no other real connection to the society around them, going to cross-town rival high schools (Romeo and Juliet much?) managed to fall in love and stay that way forever, through thick and thin. 

                I took a relationship quiz today.  It told me nothing I didn’t already know.  We’re really good together, but I’m a bit clingy.  What a surprise.

                I am a product of every movie I’ve ever watched.  Every war movie and the penultimate “Captain America” made me a patriot.  Good Will Hunting taught me that sometimes it’s better to let the emotions go instead of hiding them.  Shawshank Redemption showed me that if there’s a will, there’s a way.  Doctor Who (a TV show, I know) made me want to save the world a thousand times over with a beautiful girl at my side.  Dead Poets Society put the power of words in my heart, and Good Morning Vietnam showed me that even the worst moments need some comic relief.  Top Gun taught me that the world goes on, and Braveheart taught me to never give up, even if it means giving your life.  Forrest Gump showed me that even those of us who are dejected by society can still make our mark on history, and The King’s Speech showed me that you don’t have to be the best speaker to be a leader.  I learned my race relations from Remember the Titans, and Mrs. Doubtfire made damn sure that I will love my children.  Far and Away taught me to keep dreaming, you’ll get there, and A Few Good Men taught me to believe in myself.  Jerry Maguire showed me how to fall in love, and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty gave me the courage to dare.  This is who I am, really.  Imagine a patched up teddy bear, with so many layers of old stitching all over that you can’t tell who he was in the first place.  In fact, that bear isn’t even there anymore.  Just the stuffing.  The memories.  The intelligence.  The basics.  And the old heart is still beating, told to march in so many different ways that it’s decided to grab on to something and hold it (Dawn), probably a little too tight.  But at least now she’ll know why.