Experiment: fan

This is an experiment. It may well not make sense to anybody other than me, so I apologise for that!

First it was boh3m3; carelessly-crafted rants inspiring legions; we expected him to be careful with us. Inevitable disappointment, disillusionment; a fall from gracelessness, so much pride having gone before. And I, needing more, turned to the Sons of Admirals, boys demonstrating skill and immaturity and thus fuelling my fantasy. Talent is such a beautiful thing to waste. And this is what I do; watch others be wonderful, always wondering when it will be my turn, my turn to be special.

The fantasy always runs the same, no matter whom the subject: What if, what if, I met him? What if, what if I spoke? I am witty and erudite, observant and charming, and he listens. That is more or less all. To be listened to; to be respected and liked by those I like and respect; this is the stuff of dreams. And it whiles away a while for a while, while I walk or try to sleep: I think about what I would say to prove my worth.

To prove I wasn't just a fan. Which I am. I am a fan.