A first person account of me constructing a third person account about myself for national consumption.

The me I would write about writing about wouldn’t be a Me that friends would recognize. Neither “Me” (the one writing and the one writing about the process of writing) would be me exactly. They would be the Me’s I would be if I let me be myself without being concerned with convention or with being comprehended.

Me (both of them) would be the character I wish I could be or that I’m relieved I’m not — depending on my mood.

The first person third person autobiography would most likely poke fun at how most people construct what they think is reality based on their desire to be accepted by others based on their perception of what other accept.

And it would be a chance for me (this Me) to write like I think and not translate my thoughts into conventionally composed, single themed streams so others can follow. I could write in rivers, not streams.

“The Convention” would be a good title. That’s where Me would get inspired to leave and write about himself. He would write a journal about writing a book about himself while dabbling in writing the book. The journal would be first person and the book would be third person.

And that’s how I would write about me writing about Me.
  

Sarah woke today from dozing in a pain-pill induced haze and called for me to come over.

“What, Sweetheart?” I asked, “Do you need more water?”
“No, I need a hug. I just had a terrible dream.“
“Oh no, what was it about?”
“It was really bad.”
“It’s ok. You can tell me.”
“Well,” she started, “I had a dream that I was shopping.”
“That sounds good. Girls love shopping.”
“No, I had a dream that I was shopping and Beth Chapman from Dog the Bounty Hunter had her own clothing store.”
“You’re right,” I said. “That’s a terrible dream.”
“The worst part was that Beth Chapman had her own store and she was forcing me to buy clothes and try them on. It was a really bad dream.”

The moral of the story: If you think all the crowds are bad while you’re doing your Christmas shopping this month, remember, it could be much worse. You could be trapped in a store owned by this woman, and forced to try on clothes. Fashions by Beth: A fate worse than death.