I'm not very good at many activities. Iprobably won't be valedictorian, I don't have the fastest 3K time, and someonehas yet to accuse me of being the fairest in all the land. How then am I supposedto continue my existence?

It is understandable if you, the reader, find mywhining immature and self-centered. Congratulations, you found me out. Even mymother gives me the overused title "brat." She always claims afterwardto have meant I was acting in a bratty manner, but I was not a brat. Is there adifference?

I want to be horribly acclaimed, accomplished and accepted inan elite circle of gurus. I don't have to master multiple talents, just one tobring in the money and a second to please guests at parties. Some are exceptionalathletes. They wear shiny flourescent sweat pants bulging at the ankles, andpeople love them. Certain folks can tickle and clank musical instruments untilthey're officially insane or madly rich. Either way, an independent film isalways made to explain their prodigal childhoods. Though these movies aredesperately boring and contain a surprising amount of nudity for a plot based ona kid musician, they almost never fail to achieve an award like "HighestAmount of Pictorial Emotion."

I could handle strange pants and abad biography if it meant I was recognized as more than a moving pile ofadolescent sand. Life is too short to go unnoticed, but so far I seem to bemoving down a path of obscurity. Every day, after emerging from a yellow dragonof public transportation, my former kindergarten teacher drives right by me. Hasshe ever once waved in acknowledgment? Absolutely not. To her I am just another15-year-old who eventually outgrew her bed-wetting difficulties.

Mybiggest fear is wandering through 70 or 80 years and never committing one superbact. I may just be a teen with eons to think about the future, but how can Iwait? I feel an itching in me. I might be on the very verge of ... well, such isthe beauty of youth. The chances of keeling over are slim, so I can procrastinatein finalizing my dreams.

Soon though, I will morph into a stylized, giftedcreature. Ingredients for my self-awakening will be the usual: determination,labor and patience. Blah, blah, blah, but they're essential. You shall realizetheir worth when you see my glammed up face on a glossy spread, the headlinereading: "Oxford student triumphs over the literary world. Find out aboutthe pressures of publication, and how she stays so good-looking." I envisionmyself in yoga pants sitting cross-legged at thought-provoking meetings, whereI'll lead discussions on eclectic subject matter. All young women will read mybook and find themselves. Men will shed their barbaric machismo for a moresensitive demeanor upon studying my second work, Grunting & Scratching:Sorry, Boys, They Just Aren't Attractive. Near Christmas, I will be sure to printa seasonal favorite with a modern twist, an audience satisfier like Why RudolphChose To Be a Stay-At-Home Reindeer Dad. Kids will beg to have this one in theirstockings.

It is becoming obvious that I am destined for the amazing.Realistically, the best thing to do now would be to write a set of acceptancespeeches for when the press needs a fabulous quote. I must remember not to flingmyself ahead too far. Though no contracts have been signed at present, using mymysterious sense of intuition, I sense that in the next few minutes arepresentative from Simon & Schuster will be phoning. Goodness gracious! Ihad better practice a mature, capable telephone voice. I apologize, but clearlymy schedule is full; I must say adieu. 'Tis the life of a modern author!