Last winter, I lamented that I don’t want to feel like a charlatan. Anymore. Ever. Perhaps it is because I feel as if I’ve always bought into “Fake it until you make it.”

Yet, I’ve never made it. Fake it? Yes. Make it? No.

Dilettante, indeed. Jack of all trades, master of none.

Or have I?

My inner voice is constantly telling me I’m unsuccessful. Always riding the struggle bus. One disaster away from ruin. Constantly searching for evidence of a single decision in life that wasn’t… stupid.

So, I was stunned when my favorite girl tells me she’s jealous of my life. My freedom.

Yes, she’s an important part of my life. We have proven time and again that we support each other through all of our… stupid decisions. And hoping one will prove to be that springboard into our fantasies of being eccentric billionaires. Hoping. Maybe wishing is a better word.

So, what is real? As a charlatan surviving in an increasingly cruel world, is anything real? Apparently I am good at something. Money keeps appearing, even though it seems so surreal. As do the words on the page. Am I a writer? Perhaps.

Neither her nor I are making any obvious strides to get ahead. We take turns getting into trouble. We help each other out when we can. But neither of us manage to get ahead… for long, at least.

And, while we share many of the same passions and ideals, neither of us have anyone in our immediate social circle we can identify as successful. Or a mentor. Her friends are self-absorbed, drink too much, and are underwater in debt. My friends have a li’l money—enough for a comfortable living—yet have nothing else in their lives I find… desirable. And continuously give advice that is not asked for. And pass judgment on my unconventional life.

Is anything real? Am I truly immortal? If so, I’d better find a mentor who can help me live better than I am now.

I think I know where to look…