I was sitting in a Boarders bookstore with my brother, who loves books. He has always loved books since he was a kid. I like books too, but not enough to sit in a bookstore and read them for hours on end. As I sat there I picked up a little black journal/sketchbook and began to write in it. I figured that as long as I was there I could write something. I don't know why, but at that moment in time I felt like I should be writing something. As I wrote in the little black book I felt that in some weird way it made me look smart; or at least smarter than I actually am.

I felt as if the people walking around the store would look over to the coffee shop see me writing and think I was one of the smart people that sits in bookstore coffee shops reading great literature or writing the next great American novel. I am one of the elite members of the bookstore coffee shop group. We are a great mix of people; to my right is an overweight man with a tight blue and white shirt talking to two women, one black and one white. He's telling them about the advantages of being vegetarian. To my left there is a balding man with a goatee reading a Harry Potter book. Behind me is a group of young girls talking about a guy that used to so great but has now been reduced to "that fucking asshole." In front of me is my brother reading a book of poetry. We are the smart people that hang out in the coffee shop areas of book stores

********

just in case you were wondering, this is what I wrote in the little black book:

When I was a kid I used to believe that there was a worm named Gilbert that lived in my stomach. Gilbert used to love to eat all the same foods that I loved. When I wanted pizza or chocolate chip cookies it was because Gilbert wanted them. In my mind Gilbert was more of a sock puppet kind of worm. He wasn't slimy or stinky, just a sock puppet worm that lived in my stomach and loved to eat the same things I did. I'm thinking that today I'll eat pizza, chocolate chip cookies and a large glass of Coke. It's not that I really want all that stuff, but Gilbert wants it.

Hey, I didn't say I was actually writing the next great American novel.