I’m fucking amazing. When I do a somersault I wrap it up with a back hand spring. Why? Not to impress anyone. Not for good measure. But because that’s what I was MADE to do. That’s just the way it is.

I drive a car and the breaks never go out. NEVER. I’ll drive on no breaks. That’s how fucking great I am. I don’t even need them. Seriously, go get me a car with no breaks and I’ll fucking show you.

Sometimes I jump into the air and it seems like minutes before I land. It’s as if time stops or something. Nobody has ever seen anything like it before. People have been known to eat entire hot dogs in the time it takes me to return to the earth after a simple, casual hop.

My singing voice is the stuff angels are made of. If you broke an angel down into sounds, three of those sounds would be my voice and the other one would be indecipherable to human ears. My voice is heaven sent. It can talk crazy homeless people out of fighting over donuts. It’s a weapon of mass affection. Listen to my voice and you won’t have cancer. EVER.

But all my wonderful skills pale in comparison to one thing. These seemingly super-human traits, all succumb to the gravity of reality when they stand in the shadow and look up at one thing. My ability to write. I’m an amazing fucking writer. I’m probably the best writer who has ever lived. Mark Twain was decent, William Shakespeare is awarded a lot of luxury for being around for so long, but I am ninja like in my knowledge of structure. I’m a savant when it comes to comedy. And I can turn out a full, polished work of literary art in the time it takes the world’s fastest man to run the world’s shortest mile. Mother fucker.

So why is it, then, that I can’t get a fucking job? I’ve studied harder, practiced more. I’ve toiled, slaved, hours and hours and hours, the vowels on my keyboard eroding down, light bulbs burning out, kitty cats wearing out their cuteness, all while I work. And work. And get rejected, time and time again.

Even the worst shows don’t want me. That’s not me feeling sorry for myself, (as I can do better than anyone who has ever in the history of history) that’s legitimate. They’ve all looked at me, the tweener comedy shows, the pop culture South Park wannabes, South Park, various talk shows, friends, friends of friends, terrible worst things ever, have all looked me, straight in my indomitable steel eyes made of wonder and majesty, and said “No.”

And I stare back and all I can say is, “You’re right.”

Because I’m a fucking failure. I’m nothing. I’m fat. Bald. Fading eye sight. Fading relevance. I’m a sad, old, miserable, bitter, asshole. The reason that nobody will ever hire me, is because I’ve already decided that they never will. Then I lock myself up in my lead box and pretend that it’s impenetrable to criticism. Send out shit to those who will tell me it’s roses, and believe them.

That can be the only explanation - that I’m kidding myself. How else, could it possibly be? How else could this gift be wasted and discarded by so many looking to profit from just the thing? This man who can leap over trees and stand balancing on the end of a single pencil, who can compose a paragraph so mesmerizing that women are hypnotized into passionately and sluttishly tearing their clothes off by its beauty. How can this Adonis ever be rejected? This fucking genius? This talent? Because it’s not genius. It’s not talent. It’s common, every day, old hat.

I live in a swamp of doubt. There are frogs and all that shit here. It’s terrible. The smell alone is, in a word, indescribable.