At 30, I’m angry at myself for not being famous.

The way I figured it, I’m never going to have a circle of people that are really close. Like, best friends close. Like getting married and having a family close. Like family gathering close.

And, so, the only way to really make amends for that was to be famous. At least that way, I’d have fans in place of nothing, to fill up that kind of emptiness that comes with being alone. And being rich to boot, so I can actually go out and travel and live in New York City and go to shows, and go on exotic vacations.

If I couldn’t have an ordinary life, I wanted an extraordinary one.

And I guess my life is extraordinary. Just extraordinarily bad. Wrong side of the bell curve. Whoops.