All I really want out of life is to be Neil Gaiman. That Tumblr feed of his is mammoth. He posts more than NPR, half of them replies to comments and questions from followers of his Tumblog. The way I currently understand time, he must spend about three-quarters of his life at a computer, eating while he sleeps and also he probably has four hands. Or, more likely, he ambidextrously types on two keyboards at once. With his eyes closed. Outsiders assume he is plugged into the Matrix.

Even more likely is this: he writes stories that people buy, occasionally turn into movies, and his fortune of fans only grows. The rich get richer. My jealousy would only be complete if he were my same age. Without looking it up, however, I believe he was born in 1960, which would make him 51 or 52, which means even if everything turns out exactly how I want, exactly like this, I have two more decades to wait on becoming who I want to be.

In the spirit of microlending, Neil, how’s about you donate to the cause? Twenty-five fans. I’ll pay you back with thirty in a year.

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