Other people's fame is a gruesome fish slouched in my favorite recliner, smoking cigars and burning holes and dying. The fish is a grayish carp that believes fanatically in Midwestern family values, and it is definitely hacking death phlegm onto my face.

I'm pretty sure I'm pregnant.

I accidentally go to a poetry reading. Certain I have been murdered by that professor's poem about moonlight on a stagnant field of grass, I hole up in a locked coffin and quit writing for one hundred thousand years. I give up more than ever. Every day I make my boyfriend bring me McDonald's, invent new ways to avoid plots and characters, make some sloppy boomerangs out of the guts of other people's stories, and cackle as I chuck them out imaginary windows where they behead poet passersby whose chicken necks rain shit and blood all over everybody.

This (ta da!) is what I call "Satisfaction of Process," which is so easy and thrilling and rewarding until you crawl back out into the miserable light of day, or click-click-click by accident into the razor-jaws of the internet.