I have a group of friends who are immensely talented. Whether it’s a stunning visual artist, an investigative reporting genius, a martial arts master, an intuitive behaviorist, an accomplished singer/songwriter, or a financial wiz-kid, you can’t rub shoulders with any person I know without being at least somewhat impressed.

It is incredibly depressing.

When you rub my shoulders, you stand a good chance of being unimpressed. In that I have not found an effective vehicle for my wit, I am unable to say, “Oh, it’s okay, you can still be impressed by me: I’m the funny one.” It’s simply not true. They’re all funny as well, and some of them have even proven it in published work.

Am I the hanger-on? I ask this as I sit on my couch in my pajamas, licking brie off of a knife, while each friend of mine is off honing his or her craft. I dare say that I am the best of the best when it comes to eating cheese, but that is merely indicative of the fact that my suspicions are probably true. I am the hanger-on.

I guess I can always hold out hope that my friends will let me moderate their fan websites when they are overwhelmed by the dizzying effects of fame and fortune. Or maybe they’ll let me pick the cheeses for their fancy parties. I’m quite good at that.

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