I joke about massages from Helen Hunt every now and again, and I appreciate a well-formed female body as much as the next XY-chromosone’d individual, but the reality is I don’t fantasize about anyone except my wife. Sounds sappy, but it’s the simple truth.
It’d be great to win the lottery, and I’m not above toying with random ideas about what I’d do with zillions of dollars, but the reality is we’re comfortable and I don’t really have fantasies about money changing my life.
I love football season, but I never fantasize about being a winning quarterback, or, really, being anyone else at all. I like being me.
Except.
I fantasize that I can sing.
Especially in the wake of listening to the sing-along blog of Dr. Horrible, I really, REALLY wish I could sing. I can’t. I’m so bad it’s scary. People will wince and leave if I try. And what’s worse is I’m not tone deaf. Far from it. Hit a note on a piano, and I’ll tell you what it is and be right within a step either way. I know music theory. I just can’t make my lousy, traitorous voice do what my ears hear.
I have a great speaking voice. But the only way I could be in a musical would be to do the Rex Harrison talking-through-the-song trick. Or be a member of the chorus. In the back. Who moves his mouth enthusiastically but doesn’t… you know… actually make any sound.
I wish I could sing.
You lucky fuckers that can sing: I hate you all.
Only please keep singing, 'cause I love it when you do.
Bastards.