Someone once told me I was eccentric. I laughed out loud because I am the least eccentric of any people I know. I am, in fact, so normal and middle-of-the-road that I occasionally label myself boring. I am. Boring, that is. I am a puddle of mediocrity in a pool of ordinary. The jack of all trades and master of none. Neither the dimmest bulb nor the brightest. Plain yogurt. A one dollar bill. I am as exciting as baseball in the off-season and Christmas in July. I have been the second choice of too many girls to recount (Gosh, Frank, if it wasn’t for— insert name here— it would be you) and the tenth choice on a team of nine. I write because I have no other talent. I am the sponge which lives vicariously. Even the kids who love me abandon me when they are old enough to realize…
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 