So one day...

...you wake up and realize you have slowly been destroying yourself. The smoking, sleep deprivation and not eating have slowly been deteriorating everything you ever wanted to be and everything you wanted to do.

When I was five I went to kindergarten with firetrucks on my boxers. I wanted to be a fireman. The other kids made fun of the boxers when I went to the bathroom and I was mortified so the dream of fighting fires died when I switched to tighty-whiteys.

The next dream was to become a magician like my mom's uncle Harold. Even to the point of having people call me by middle name, which was coincidentally Harold. I'm sure I would have put magnificent in front of it or something which would have cushioned the future blow of people calling me Harold. That died, too.

I saw Evel Kneivel on TV and then I wanted to be a daredevil. When I cranked my tiny Evel and shot him across my grandma's back patio it seemed completely plausible. Then I went out front to jump on my bike and do some jumps and it was gone. Somebody stole it.

At that point, I started running out of ideas of what I wanted to be. Still trying to figure it out, but I know I'm not really going where I want to be going. So, starting tonight when I go to bed, it's on. I don't want to be a hero, daredevil or even Neal Schon's hair. I just want to be the guy who no one notices. The guy who shows up by himself to a Christmas party with a bottle of wine who everyone asks who he knows there and then immediately forgets his name. I want to add nothing to conversations and make no one laugh unless they mean something to me. I want to sleep eight hours a night. I want to like Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews. I want to think that Meet the Fokkers was comic genius. The show needs to end and I don't want to perform for strangers anymore. It's a waste of time and drains me. Here's to tomorrow.