How Can I Not Be Myself?

All I can do is write. Well, I can think, too, but in order to articulate these (what are by now) left of center thoughts, I must have a sensual outlet. Sensual as in of the senses, not necessarily of a sexual nature.  What to do? To what do I resort? I have a cat that I adore, so suicide is completely out of the question. And it’s not like I’m suffering like the Sudanese, so I can’t feel sorry for myself, though the temptation is as luscious as the ripest, reddest most succulent of fruit. I am in love with a lover who feels the need for penance so she parts from me, to inevitably and ironically, flirt with others.  She’s married to a man she is not in love with. Who’s a cop. In the next town over. Which amuses all to whom I tell this tale.

I should have listened to my dad, and pursued baseball. I was good. Made every all-star team and kicked ass to the 99%th percentile. Would have at least gotten a scholarship and made it to the minors.

Should not have listened to my mom and should have dyed my hair purple to become a Goth star. I was a rocking drummer and found out later in life that I have a powerful voice, propensity for the keyboard and a naturally slacker lackadaisical attraction to the temptations of rockstarism.

Instead I went to college like a good boy and how can I not be myself? I partied my ass off, got F’s and A’s and generally emerged as a beautiful bronzed blond brainiac barfly beachbum. Add businessman to those six and you have what I am now. Minus the barfly. Plus some bafflement.

Where do I go? What do I do? Is there a profession made for me? Or, heaven forbid, do I have to mold my own to hold my own?