Like many people this movie season, I love Slumdog Millionaire, the inspiring tale of a poor Indian boy who, against all odds, manages to have his childhood friend grow up to be Freida Pinto. But as I watch it win award after award, I can’t help but be a little bitter. And I am bitter because: A) I am a grumpy old man, B) I am partially composed of dark chocolate, or C) It was written.

The correct answer is C. It was written. By me. Slumdog was my idea.

There are differences between the two versions, of course, the biggest one being that Mr. Danny Boyle opted to take the easy way out and used three different sets of actors to portray the characters at different ages. My version, however, demanded authenticity and needed to be filmed in real time. Work on the first third of the film began when I was five: my classmates and I prepared the backdrop by coloring on a large piece of construction paper. There was a purple Taj Mahal, an orange sun with a smiley face, and in the top right corner, an UFO shooting lasers at unsuspecting Indians. That last bit sounded as ridiculous then as it does now, but my friend, to whom we gave the title of producer, insisted our movie needed special effects.

The next part of the film was shot when we were in our teens. It was plagued with so many problems it almost never happened. Our female star insisted she had grown too hot for our male star for it to be realistic. Other cast members decided the film was a silly idea, especially when they could be out chasing girls. And our director of photography discovered the joys of alcohol. If it wasn’t for my persistence, the entire project would’ve been doomed. Our insurance did not cover puberty.

Work on the third and final part of the film, in which we are in our twenties, was supposed to begin next week. Hm.

So I guess my life’s project must remain incomplete, but even if we are unable to finish our version without a certain degree of awkwardness, I would like to at least describe to you our ending. It is a lot like the one in Slumdog, except because Who Wants to be a Millionaire did not yet exist, ours took place on The Price is Right.

Our male protagonist stands on the stage, and a refrigerator is rolled out. He is asked to guess its price.

The audience goes wild, shouting out a wide range of guesses. Our female protagonist, having just rushed to the studio, yells out $1200.

The male, in a sign of fate, hears only her voice. With complete confidence, he says $1200.

“Are you sure?” the host asks, “That seems awfully high for a refrigerator.”

“That is my surest answer.”

The price is revealed. It is $1200.

The movie ends when, after a lifetime of being unable to act on their love, our male and female protagonists embrace. They kiss, satisfied that they can now begin life anew, with the added bonus of free kitchen appliances. Jai ho!

It can be a nuisance being stopped every time I step onto the streets, but it is expected by those who choose to wear two monocles, like me. Why, the curious strangers would ask, do I not just wear glasses like everybody else?

One reason is that bifocals, while convenient in that they can be handled with one hand, are notoriously inflexible. If I put them on, yes, my sight rivals that of an eagle, and if I take them off, it is the same except now the eagle is asleep. But what about those special occasions when I want a mere average of the two? If I want to look into my long-lost lover’s eyes under soft focus while violin music swells up in the background, all I need to do is remove one monocle (and turn on the stereo). If I begin to tell a story about my past, and would like to make my world progressively blurry so as to cue a flashback, I can do the same. And if I meet a beautiful young lady whose only flaw is a tiny scar on her cheek, I can easily remove it by applying my own low-tech Gaussian blur. Bifocals offer no such freedom.

Another reason is that ladies love monocles. They tell me it reminds them of days past when men were gentlemen—educated, classy, and wearing monocles—when men still opened doors for their ladies because women did not yet earn the right to do so themselves, and when men still kept a respectable distance before marriage because the black plague was annoyingly contagious. In short, I suppose the monocle is a mark of sophistication, the kind that is nearly extinct in today’s fast-paced, selfish world. And if double the monocles, then surely, double the sophistication.

To be quite candid, there is a third monocle adorned somewhere else on my body, but few get the privilege of seeing how sophisticated I really am.

In looking at ads for a room to rent, I am somewhat perplexed by landlords requesting that their potential tenants be drama-free. First, what do they have against actors? And second, with what do you gauge your drama levels? I can be sure I don’t have a dog, I can be sure I don’t do drugs, but how do I know I am devoid of drama? Because I most certainly am not; the only thing free about my drama is that I don’t get paid for it.

Take for instance that moment 22 years ago when my parents refused to buy me the toy car on the shelf. A normal, well-adjusted human being would somberly accept this rejection and vow to work hard so that he can one day afford the toy himself. I, however, just cried and crapped my diapers. I do not know what came over me that day, but such is the life for someone so filled to the brim with drama.

From this, I have also learned why the homeless are so cranky. Or rather, why the cranky are so homeless. And I am inspired to help these people once I have the money. The Kevin Kao Home for the Highly Dramatic will provide housing for those that promise not to be drama-free, but to be dramatic for free. Above its glass ceiling, I will have my own room, overlooking my tenants and their constant arguments over the pettiest things. “How dare you use two sheets of my toilet paper?” one would say, “How would you like it if I wiped feces on your personal property?”

In my hand would be popcorn and a Coke, and I will be greatly entertained. It would be like reality TV, without the TV.