I often wonder what other versions of me are up to in other universes, times and dimensions.
There are an infinite amount of answers when it comes to the possibilities of other lives and dimensions, but after much consideration, I think I’ve at least narrowed it down.
In one life, it’s the summer of 1952. Orange Shasta in hand, the crisp, cool New England wind blows through my hair. In my brand new one-piece bathing suit and heels, I laugh with my husband and our rich friends as we cut through the salty water on our sailboat.
Every summer, we pack up our lives and bring them here, to Nantucket. It is here I am the happiest — summer is my favorite time of year.
For three months straight, we spend our days sunbathing on the beach, swimming in the ocean and picnicking on the boat. Most nights, we dine exceptionally well, with elaborate dinners and expensive wine. Later, I retire to the library in a luxurious robe to read books until bed.
The house is quiet, except for the smooth sounds of instrumental jazz or classical records playing. We are comfortable and content in Nantucket.
There is another life, I’m sure, where I am living out a 1980s punk-rock dream in London.
I’ve got a thick accent, but my raspy, confident voice makes it so cool.
At the moment, I’m smoking my third cigarette on my break outside the record store where I work. I like the morning shifts because the world’s still quiet. I can just rest, eyes focused on the expelling of smoke as I breathe in and out.
Dressed in all black, I guess to the average person, I probably stand out. No matter what the weather’s on outside, I’ve got on my leather jacket and Dr. Martens.
Later tonight, my band’s got a show at the bar nearby. I play drums. We’re opening up for The Pretenders, who are getting big, so I’m excited. Hopefully, they like us enough to ask us to tour — or at least party with them after the show.
It’s 2001, and I’m an agent at the FBI. I live in a mediocre, totally '90s era studio apartment in Virginia. My closet consists only of work attire, but I’m still well dressed. I’ve got a plethora of peacoats, turtlenecks, button-downs and slacks, and the shoes and belts to match.
Most of my work revolves around the unexplained. Conspiracy theories and unsolved murders are all part of my day-to-day.
My sect of the FBI isn’t safe by any means. My home has been bugged more times than I can count, I’ve been threatened and blackmailed and almost killed, but that’s the job.
When men aren’t trying to silence the work I’m doing at the FBI, the ones within it are intimidated by me. But that’s only because I know what I’m doing. I’m one of the smartest agents here and I’m not afraid to say it. I worked hard to get here, and I’m good at it.
Considering all these different possibilities, it seems pointless if I don’t end up a housecat in one.
I’m a big, sturdy tabby cat living out the dream. My owner feeds me my favorite meal, Fancy Feast, twice a day, while I take naps and lie around.
Sometimes I like to claw at the foot of the couch until the inside stuffing comes out. Other days, I jump up onto the bathroom counter and knock her toothbrush onto the floor. It’s a fun dynamic we have.
She gets mad and then I get to do it all over again the next day.
At night, I curl up on her lap and watch TV with her until it’s time for bed. We fall asleep together around 10 p.m. At around 1 a.m., when I do my nightly nervous meowing and bolting around the house, she always wakes up surprised. I think it’s funny.
When I’m done, we go right back to bed.