I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. In fact I’d go as far as to say I’m a bit ashamed by some of the things that have happened in my past. I don’t know why I’m admitting this online to all of you, maybe it’s just the never ending grind of living on a ship in space knowing you’re one of less than 40,000 people left and having this blonde woman haunting my waking moments (and my dreams).
Yes, the blond woman. Therein lies my shame. If it wasn’t my love for women maybe I wouldn’t be here now. Maybe none of us would. If it hadn’t been my desire for her I might not have committed the acts I did, unknowingly (or, if honesty is to be the theme of this confession, uncaringly) colluding with man’s greatest enemy, and allowing the Cylon invasion to destroy human civilisation. There are times when I see the faces of those people, gone in a moment, frozen forever in front of my eyelids, annihilated in unholy fire. I open my eyes and for a brief second they’re still there, accusing me, judging me. But the blonde woman is always there to assuage my doubts, reassure my anxiety. If only my sense of guilt was greater than the feeling of relief that I wasn’t one of them, maybe I could start to forget…
Oh wait, that’s not my life, that’s Gaius Baltar from Battlestar Galactica. Um… carry on.
Isn’t anyone else going to play along? 
So I’m supposed to take a work of fiction and encapsulate some dilemma that a character is facing, speaking in the first person, basically?
Doesn’t have to be a dilemma, could be anything. Just mistake yourself for a character in a work of fiction. I thought people would be all over this thread!
So I’ve locked myself in my office, ready to do Fine Art. It’s an adventure, Fine Art is. I’m going to write a novel. It’ll be a bodice-ripper… no, a space opera. No, a work of philosophy that will reveal new and stunning truths.
*On life, by __________. *
I have always believed that
I wish I had a sandwich.
This isn’t very exciting at all. I thought being an author was supposed to be exciting. Passion! Despair! Elation! But the only thing I feel is my butt going numb.
I’m a failure. An utter and complete failure.
I wonder if Snuffkin is fishing. No, wait… I’m not Moominpappa. There’s not even a lake here. Could do with a sandwich though. And there’s something like the Hemulen moving through the house.
When I was 5 or 6, I read a children’s book about a little kid who was rocketed into space a la the Mercury missions. The isolated plains where the launch pad was located looked an awful lot like the Kansas I lived in, and I identified with it a little too strongly. I was in my thirties when I flashed on that memory and clearly realized, for the first time, that that story had not in fact happened to me.
Daddy…mommy…I miss you so much.
It’s my fault you’re gone, isn’t it? If I hadn’t nagged you into taking me to the movies, you’d still be here.
Why didn’t he kill me too? Then I’d be with you; where ever you are. Do you miss me there? Do you think about me?
Terrorizing them makes me feel better. Hurting them lets me forget about that night for a little while.
I miss you so much…