Science and Fiction

Desperate Housewives, that cursed, flawed but fascinating misnomer series, is on and on in my household right now. Yes, I am late, as always, I don’t live by anyone’s schedule, don’t own a TV, and stumble at things at my own pace. The shit that is hidden in those lives, so seemingly ordinary and insignificant, the madness, the addictions, the secret sex parties, the pure evil, the perversions and infidelities, the false sex abuse accusations, the very real sex abuse, the omnipresent paranoia that surrounds both, the lies, the love, the sex and the passion, the love children, the mind games, the ghosts of the past that haunt the present, the paralyzing fear and the plastic smiles glued on permanently – I have all that, and more, peppered with a pinch of the blackest, wackiest humour around. That’s one of those stories that seem ridiculous when compared to the monotony of our every day…

I wrote a story in Warwick that was pure non-fiction. Just plain facts. The group reaction was: it was too complicated, too far-fetched, never could have happened in real life. I was twenty five then, mental age of a newborn. Four years later, a life later, I can tell you my life is getter stranger than fiction by the minute. Desperate Housewives may be good, but it could never match. When I read the non-fiction of my every day, science fiction is more what it feels like.