I chugged a can of some fancy soda pop I picked up at Whole Foods. It costs $2.14 and tastes like fading cherry lip gloss. It’s supposed to stimulate your brain, but all I can think about is how uncomfortable I am with the word “Chugging” and how many calories this thing is attaching to my face.

I can’t really find any honor in this thing. There is no win. Oh, I should tell you that “this thing” is a reference to being a famous writer amongst my friends. It’s gross, all the compliments and fawning. I like it, don’t get me wrong, but it’s so slimy. I feel like I’m cheating on the muse when I let a female friend’s hand linger on my back for longer than friendship allows. I feel like a fraud when another friend talks to me about how I made him feel when reading a specific piece. I wrote that piece in 5 minutes between playing facebook scrabble and sipping coffee. It’s too bad, I think.

I just finished some fancy can of soda pop and I’m waiting for my brain to reveal miracles. Another friend of mine told me she didn’t want to read my book because she was told about its contents. She said that it wasn’t me, that I was supposed to be a “bad ass”, or some other phrase like that. I told her she didn’t know me that well… but I think she’s the only one I trust, going out on a drunken limb like that. Not that she’s right, but that she’s true to her vision of reality. And, to be honest,it was nice to think of myself as a bad ass, at least for one drunken second, one drunken distraction from being a world famous writer, at least in the minds of 3/4ths of my friends.