For an hour, I’ve been sat, on my floor, wrapped in a sweatshirt—hood up, like a drug dealer or a celebrity buying Pepto Bismol at the pharmacy—watching late night talk show clips on YouTube and lazily throwing my dog his toy and pretending that I’m about to start writing a blog post.

Yesterday I didn’t write a post because I was packing/in a bad mood, and I almost didn’t write one today because I was packing/watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills/feeling like I need to put out a quality blog post. I try not to let the “how many people read this post” numbers—omg is the word “statistics?” I couldn’t figure out the word but it’s statistics, isn’t it, and why don’t I just backspace this entire tangent and take out “how many people read this post” numbers and put in the actual word? I won’t. I would never. Never disrupt the process—and when I do really well stats-wise—there, I used it—I feel like the critic in Birdman who hates Michael Keaton and talks about how gritty and raw her writing is. And when I don’t do well stats-wise, I feel like the critic in Birdman who hates Michael Keaton when Michael Keaton tells her that her writing is shit and she just lives to take a crap on other people’s art.

So I’m constantly fighting between putting out content that’s rambling and funny and might not have the catchy titles like “My Anus Has Prolapsed” or “Ten Reasons Why Russia Needs To Take Back Alaska”—both potential articles that I am now considering writing—but having that content be consistent or wait until I have—what I think is—a really good idea (a medium idea for most people) and getting in those dope skrilla views.

So obviously to combat that I decided to write a post about writing posts with quality but this post will have no quality.

In my binge of watching late night show YouTube clips of Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer, I have decided that when I become famous—either for being a writer/comedian/talk show host, or—what I fear is most likely—being on an episode of My Strange Addiction—there is one thing that I will not stand for. Ever.

I never, ever, want anyone to call me “relatable.”

Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer are prized for their abilities to remain “relatable” and “in-touch” while balancing their insanely famous lives. And while I feel like there is a subtle amount of sexism in play—men are almost never asked to be “relatable”; no one cares if George Clooney or Eddie Redmayne can host a barbeque before the Emmys, so why is it so important that female celebrities are required to remain humble and down-to-earth—I won’t go into that much more. But, regardless of personal feelings, I still watch interviews of J-Law and A-Schu.

They’re funny and cool and just the “next door neighbor who rules the world” and that is never something that I want to be when I am famous.

I want to be so unrelatable, so completely alien to the regular Joe Schmoes that they think I’m either some sort of alien doing a passable job at pretending to be human or a sex doll who has come to life via a misguided hex, a la Life Size. I want to drip diamonds, drape myself in rare mink furs, and be carried around on a hoverboard so that I don’t have to step on the “ground” in between my Rolls Royce and the La Scala restaurant.

I want my family and friends comment in the E! True Hollywood Stories episode about my life how much I’ve changed since I “hit it big.” I want to have a Katy Perry-style green room list where I demand that the couches be re-upholstered in clouded leopard-skin and then put into a room that I have also demanded be just for my dogs to pee in.

I want to show people pictures—just kidding I would never touch a physical photograph, I would give out individual mini-iPads—of vacations from islands so elite that afterwards I either get to give them a lobotomy or put them on some sort of Scientology-style kill list.

I also read an article that when Adele was about to go to some huge award show—that she later completely swept—she went back to her old nail salon in her London childhood neighborhood to get all did. Like, excuse me? Fuck that. If I ever go to a big award show, you won’t see me slumming it at the Central Avenue Supercuts. I will have a team of stylists whose names I will never learn but whom I will identify by their most defining characteristics and who will make me look completely unrecognizable for my appearance at the 2038 Grammys, where I will host alongside Saint West, and we will honor Kim Kardashian West and Kris Jenner, who—thanks to modern science—will look roughly the same age.

And so these are the things that I think about while watching Amy Schumer tell a story on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon about prank-sexting Katie Couric’s husband. I think about when I’m famous enough to throw a glass at someone and have it be “a personality trait” and not “a felony.”

What kind of celebrity do you think you would be?

Oh, I should clarify—when I say these questions, they’re rhetorical and just for me. I’m not expecting/anticipating any of you peasants become a celebrity. So just ignore the above question. Here, I’ll write a question just for you guys:

What age do you think you’ll be when you lose all your teeth due to excessive Mountain Dew drinking?

Between eating, watching YouTube clips, and watching The People’s Couch, this took me like four hours to write. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be a “serious” writer unless I also gain the ability to freeze time, or go back in time like Hermione Granger in The Prisoner of Azkaban.