Her fingers tapped across the white key board

I'm sooo looking forward to Will Ferrell's new movie "Stranger Than Fiction." Seriously, am I the only one narrating their day to themself? My autobiography is being written in my head every single day. For example, take my thoughts from the other day:

I sat in traffic, the rain drops glowing from the red reflection of brake lights ahead of me, and remembered how we ran through Manhattan on that cold night in March. We came from Broadway, fresh with live music reverberating through our ears. No one would suspect that we were a couple of kids running away from the reality of our misguided lives. I was only 18 and he a 22 year old parolee. Little did we know, we had six weeks and another American coast to endure. This was the happiest time of my life. Today I sit in a car that isn't paid for, wearing a button down shirt that shows my ninies evertime I move an arm, listening to NPR and examining my daily paper cut. Fuck. I'm only 23.

...then motion begins and I'm running with the herd - my monologue far behind me. Okay, so it's always unrefined and grossly exaggerated and some parts minimized, but hey, maybe one day it will be worth a million. Maybe.