Congratulations, Who are you again?!

Before we get ahead of ourselves, Hi, welcome back! It's been quite a ride the last few weeks. You know, because I wrote a book and it sold out pretty fast, leaving me with a lot of cash and women to please. Sooo...

Starting this article, in the aftermath of doing actual meth, the only thought on my mind is, "what should I say this time?" Because frankly, what the fuck should I say?

Ultimately, I think I just want to yell thank you to all of you, but that could fit in a tweet, and so what kind of "celebrity" would I be if I didn't make things harder for you?!

*Voice Check*

Dreams are diaphanous and maddening things. How do you know your own dream? It reveals itself like the moon through a shrouded curtain of clouds, here and then gone, appearing in a new part of the sky every time you look up, and in a whole other shape.

Mine wasn't really being a writer or an author per se, it was simply being popular. Like Charles Bukowski, popular. But now people can't stop asking me how I did it, which I honestly don't know since I haven't reached that level yet, so I think I'll answer it when a girl faints just by the sight of me.

If your "American" dream comes true, people will ask you, too. It’s flattering and frightening because birthing a dream feels like being sucked up into the vortex of a tornado you summoned out of your very own heart shortly before being hurled back down to the earth, after which local TV crews run up to your bruised and battered body with microphones and say, Amazing! How did you do that?

I mean, what do you say?

That’s why I wrote this article, so I would know what to say. I think it’s important to get it all on paper now before I become even more famous and start wearing an ascot and walking around with an expensive cat, which could make writing books difficult.

I want my friends to know, and my family, and the world, how beautiful and terrifying it was, for my dream to come true, and how it made me believe all sorts of bizarre things, such as how I was famous, even when I’m not.

Because let’s be honest: You probably don’t know me. I have never been mentioned on E! News. I don’t even have my own Wikipedia page, unlike, say, Baby Jessica, the little girl who fell down a well in 1987 when she was eighteen months old. If I thought it would get me a Wikipedia page, I might fall down a well, too.

Having a dream is not unlike falling down a well. How else to describe the dizzying sensation of being the first member of my family to have his name said aloud on Africa Daily, which felt sort of amazing, and would have felt even more amazing if anyone in my family knew what Africa Daily was.

I mean, it’s not like I have a driver or an entourage or a personal stylist. I generally feel no pressure to be thin, or even clean. I am not a beautiful man, and cannot say that I enjoy seeing my picture everywhere, which is one thing that happens when you become a little famous. I don’t mind some pictures, but sometimes my head feels too small on my body. I try not to think about it. I have done a pretty good job of forgetting it’s even there, until these one-nightstands remind me, as they often do when we’re lying in bed, looking at one another awkwardly.

“Your face is so small,” she’ll say.

“That’s sweet,” I’ll say.

Not that I believe I’m hideous, although from certain angles I do look like Sloth from The Goonies, according to several people who were my friends before they told me that.

“Can we take a selfie?” the fans ask. What am I supposed to say? Yeah, sure, as long as my head isn’t in it? They take the photo and then put it on the Internet, which is fine, really it is. I don’t mind other people having to see my head. That’s what it’s there for. And now I see my miniature head everywhere, in magazines and

newspapers and on websites and flyers, and it’s weird. You do get tired of seeing yourself. Nobody tells you this.

When you write a book and enter among the dwarfing templates of writers who've been doing it for years and years, you feel extremely shy but also entirely wowed that in fact what you thought was your end goal is actually just the beginning. You could write anything and it would sell. From love and drugs, to how I got banned from neighboring countries because of my height. Literally anything. You'll see. And it's exciting, I can't wait.

The other day, when I went for my regular eye check up, A somewhat poised girl approached me asking if I was indeed the "shortsighted guy that published a drinking book" and of course I acted all casual and cool and said "Yes, It is I". She went on to compliment my book and my literary style which felt great until she wanted my phone number to keep in touch and was stuck on what name to save it too because she didn’t know my actual name.

It was embarrassing to say the least. I think I should change my twitter handle now so people know my real name. The girl was more humiliated though, so I feel good.

To cut this short… Thank you to everyone who read my book "I will get drunk". I did get drunk, it was the worst sensation ever. I woke up with two girls on the side of my bed, but don't worry mom, we were all fully clothed, so nothing happened. Unless my friends didn't want me knowing I had a threesome on a Sunday, and so woke up early to clothe me.

Thank you to all my supporters, media houses, my unpaid managers and agents (You know yourself Tony), and well, my insecurities; for pushing me to write a book, and feel like Justin Bieber after the whole teenage phase.

Who wants to do meth with me tonight, I'm pretty fucked already.