...and then there'd be a photo montage.

Today I opened my fridge in a snack hunt. I saw lettuce, baby carrots, and 2% milk. Disappointed, I closed the fridge and turned around real quick, and then I stared at it for a couple seconds before whipping the door open again. Lettuce, baby carrots, and 2% milk. I'm not really sure what I was expecting, but I definitely didn't get it.

Sometimes I fantasize about myself being stuck in a wheelchair. Like after a life-altering injury. Sometimes I'll push a child out of the way of an oncoming Mack truck, but most of the time it's nothing so grandiose. Usually I'm just another victim of a drunk-driving accident. Actually, in my fantasies I'm fairly certain I've been in more car accidents than all the characters on One Tree Hill combined (see eps 13, 41, 67, and 126).

But anyway, yeah, peeps would be all visiting my crippled ass, and they would leave downright inspired by how I stayed so upbeat. There's still so much to live for! Sure, I can't walk anymore, but it's not the end of the world. I'm in the best shape of my life, halfway through my second novel, and I've never been closer to God to be quite frank.

Also, hospital beds. Classic fantasy. Woman's a victim of a Harlem mugging. She's stabbed, and I rush onto the scene ready to perform emergency first aid, but she starts crying and tells me not to touch her. She has AIDS. I look her in the eye, give her a quivering smile, and tell her it's going to be OK.

So then I become a hero with AIDS, and health complications leave me bedridden in Manhattan Medical. I drift in and out of consciousness, and the dream girl I've loved for years never leaves my side for a moment. I confess my love to her amidst a morphine-induced stupor, and her tears fall like sun showers on my hospital gown. I die soon after, and she happily marries a compassionate man somewhat later in life. Names her firstborn son after me, and he grows up to invent a working HIV vaccine, which is also named after me. Young James wins a Nobel Prize, but, bless his soul, he instead reassigns the award to me for being his inspiration.

I guess you could say I'm a sick freak.

Most people envision themselves becoming famous surgeons being flown in to Kosovo for a complex operation or war heroes vaulting insurmountable odds in the face of certain death. Personally, I dream of becoming a terminal cancer patient imparting his dying words to the faint tune of a string quartet floating in a tear-riddled photo montage. I think I'd be really good at that.

On that note, I think I'm just disgustingly enchanted with having an honorable death. For someone as lazy as me, I think it would be a fabulous end to a nonexistent career. So yeah, that's what I believe in, and then my tombstone would be inscribed, "Jim Wallace was a great man. He died for his beliefs."

Just awesome.