Periodically, I imagine myself Stephen King, movie-of-the-week, batshit, psychopathic crazy. It would liven up the mundane, I feel.

For example, Saturday morning, M. and I were enjoying a nice, hot cup of Joe at the local Peet’s. As we sat there, soaking up the weekend relaxation and sitting on the stools facing the windows to watch the world passing, we were accosted.

A pair of women, older than us, safely what you might call middle-aged, asked us for a favor. Did we have a cell phone they could borrow for a two-second, local call? In a few seconds, on my minutes, they explained to someone on the other end that while out for a walk, they had stopped for coffee, and they invited the unseen to join them.

Replete with thanks, they gave me back my phone.

A lovely, yet boring, suburban weekend interlude.

But, imagine if I was sociopathic how very different and fun it could have been. The rest of the day could have proved a playground of prank calls to the very number now recorded on my telephone’s log.

Or maybe a reverse lookup on the internet could have given me the fodder for a stalking spree. Imagine my crazy self squatting in the bushes, awaiting for the return of at least one of the strolling companions who had brought us all together. I could rob the house or assume a new identity or maybe just insinuate myself into their lives.

The possibilities, the dramatic arcs, the scene-chomping horror that might have been, ended instead in a simple, “you’re welcome,” as I returned to my coffee, and M. and I picked up our conversation.

Similarly, when my friends, the Walsh boys, visited, they left with a possibly enjoyable but relatively boring story to tell. They stayed, we ate things, we visited places, we drank, we talked, we hiked, etc.

However, they’d be telling the story for years to come if their visit was laced with Rohypnol. I mean who wouldn’t remember waking up with a vague sense of dread and some soreness where there shouldn’t be any.

If only we had gotten all Edward Albee on them and screeched our improvisations on George’s and Martha’s best from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe? Now, they likely have the recollection that M. and I are spending our days in playful banter and relative contentedness. A lasting, memorable story? Perhaps not.

Sadly, I lack the gravitas for the type of greatness where I dent the world so hard I must be held in regard for days, months, years and generations to come.

Lacking that, crazy folks they remember. Meanwhile, I live a life eminently forgettable.