I am a celebrity.
The internet says that I am a celebrity.
The Internet never lies.
Paparazzi grows between my toes.
I have to rub cream over them to get away from the cameras.
The tabloids report on where I go for breakfast.
I am always front page news.
I wrote one sentence in my novella today: "Instead of sleeping, I hide under the covers with a flashlight, The Anarchist Cookbook, the pipe from under the kitchen sink, and a bag containing gunpowder that I scavenged from my sleepaway camp’s rifle range last summer."
I heard on Entertainment Tonight how there were a record number of suicides among my billions of fans due to my lack of productivity.
The fans that are still breathing are anxiously awaiting my next sentence.
All over the world, sad people left notes that said: "I cannot bear to live another day knowing that Bradley Sands' manager convinced him to come into work two hours early, which resulted in his attempt to go to sleep earlier than usual, which resulted in suffering from insomnia, which resulted in extreme tiredness during his shift, which resulted in a lack of confidence in his writing.
My fans who survived this ultimate disappointment copes with the pain by reassuring themselves that even though I had already failed at my attempt to write one chapter in my novella a day, I still vowed to work on it every day, if only for one sentence at a time.
They will set their alarm clocks to the time when I wake up and we will know each other's internal body clocks. But unlike me, cybernetic pterodactyls will not guard their bodies from obsessed fans who want to rip out their gallbladders so they have something to put on top of their Bradley Sands shrines that they keep in their garages.
Micah Hacim. Do not come within two hundred feet of me. I have a restraining order against you. My cybernetic pterodactyl bodyguards have been ordered to devour you on sight.