3 AM Epiphany, Exercise 4

I alway give myself time to imagine I'm famous. I watch Britney self destruct and think, 'that poor girl...fame has not done her well.' But then I think to myself, 'she just wasn't ready.'
I'm ready.
I think I can do it. I can go to the spa and handle when someone says, "he's put on weight. He's put on A LOT of weight."
I know my family trained me for my ongoing sucess. They are mean and loud and know everything about me and still love me. Imagine the world at large doing the same. I mean they seem to like me-or at least put up the facade strong enough.
I like to pretend, in my head, that I'm reading the article about myself. "Smith seemed to be prepped for fame. His mother, the very definition of a stage-mom. Only she had one difference, she wanted her kids to have a certain understanding of the world.
"John Smith was no difference. He illustrated a profound ability on the boards, being pushed onto them at the tender age of 4. He kept performing. And even in his off hours, he discussed audiences with his family so he could improve his own writing. He reported the dread of seeing an empty page and how angry he would get when he had a crisp one and the teacher would not fill it with information. So he would just jot away whatever horror or joy he felt he could cover in the five minutes of boredom the teacher handed him.
"Mr. Smith would return to the stage again and again, using huge and changing venues. He'd sometimes sing old Gaelic tunes for the local pub; he'd work out difficult Shakespeare texts with the college courses he'd suppliment his income with; he'd hold court playing a four line walk-on in whatever blockbuster was filiming in nearby downtown.
"And his writing was always ongoing," I'd say to myself, especially more and more as it came to an end, "and when his first book became a bestseller, that was his draw.
"He knew he didn't want Hollywood to maul it; he did not want to whine to the press that he once worked with about Hollywood was going to kill his characters. That was when he went into screenwriting for his own short stories."
Of course, none of it was true at all. I'd make the whole thing up. I'm an actor, but I'm a much better writer. There was no reason. But I like to think the only truth in the story is that I could handle fame better then most. I still, after all these years, feel ignored. I like to think that's why I became a teacher. It's seven scheduled performances A DAY. I gotta love that!
But I also love the fiction. So doing my own story as a writer--wow, just wow. I can only hope that is how they see me. The fact is, it's going to be more like "he's a fake with nothing to offer. A fat man who is desparate for attention of any sort."
So I gotta make sure I'm friendly with the press as soon as possible, ya know?

Here's one where I am to slip between first person and third person--this one, I believe, worked a bit better.