I think writers are the most narcissistic people. Well, I musn’t say this.
I like many of them; a great many of my friends are writers. —Sylvia Plath

True words, Sylvia. I really should’ve been with you. You were the only one that got me, but alas, you chose yourself. So I followed you on your path to self-discover-something-else, because I’m capable of much more than I tell myself. Wow. This is like a confessional. Mom says PM, while others say POTUS, when all I really see is a Dep. Comm. from Jersey, but I can’t speak for the whole state when I barely know my own place. So, where do I see myself in X years? That’s a tough one. There’s still so much to do here, and next year. I’m talking book tours and interviews, press junkets and more intimate access to all those who never stopped believing in my success. It hasn’t happened yet. That doesn’t mean it won’t soon. Three sites later, and I’m still tooting my own horn, to go on a world’s tour, because I’m a worldstar. Aren’t you being a little arrogant? I don’t know what that word means.

That’s a lie. You’re talking to a guy who uses narc as shorthand for doesn’t mean undercover cop. It’s funny how vanity works. I am my own mirror, but if you put me on a stage for stand-up, that’s when I feel fear? That’s when I go cold? The only time I’ve done so was at Rider for someone else’s show prep. The feeling was incredi-meh, much too little and too late, because I knew full well that nothing would last past May. I will always crave laughter, and because I look different, I feel the need to divert everybody’s attention, and have them focus on my voice, rather than just my likeness. That sounded kind of racist. I assure you that it wasn’t. I just didn’t want anyone to make any rash judgments. I only need them to laugh along and feel some kind of comfort. I’m not afraid of your expectations, because they are my own creations; because they are my own delusions—of grandeur, of friendship, of she loves me, and of I hope they’re fans. Someone ought to be.

Living vicariously so carelessly is killing me. Mini powdered donuts binge, only a dollar at Wal-Mart, and the girl at the express pay counter rang up exactly twelve. The proof on my hands is now gone from the fridge. Empty water bottle by my bedside alarm clock has spilled, and washed away all my sins at close to 2 AM. What an ungodly hour to be talking to an angel, but I think I’ve figured it out: my girl will be intro’d through a blog post. Is there a reason you like to write a lot of creative non-fiction? It’s because it’s not fiction, but still not non-enough that most of it rings true, and that most will recognize you, or the connections you imply through the words that no one reads or listens to. It’s almost a perfect marriage, the only one I think I’ll have, where two minds come together, and share every idea they ever had.