I’m reading an autobiography of George Carlin – one of my favourite comedians. This biography is much more than an autobiography – it is more like a spending an endless evening with George sitting across from you with copious amounts of whatever your choice of poison and hearing him tell you everything. Some of it sounds pretty far fetched. But that is the how life is.
So it got me thinking. What if I was simply a character in a tale told in a bar by some boozy raconteur to a spellbound audience on a cold wet night someplace cold and wet?
And if I was – which would explain a few bizarre things that have happened in my life , not to mention being Serendipity’s play thing – how does this story end?
If I’m a character in a story – perhaps you are too – who is telling yours?
