Let's change tenses like a madman!

Discovered in my 'unpublished' folder.
I'm writing a story. Just so you know. I'm writing a story, and it's going to be the most glorious story anyone has ever read. People are going to read it and reevaluate their lives. I'm going to win awards and be flown to New York for a book signing. It's going to be a New York Times bestseller for 40 weeks straight. They're going to adapt my story into a movie. All my favorite actors are going to play the main characters, and we'll all be best friends and have tea together on rainy afternoons. When it becomes apparent that I've made it big, everyone will love me. All the people I hate will want to be my friend, and I'll say "No thank you." Because secretly all the mean characters in my story were somehow based on them. But I don't let that hold me back.

Everyone will want my autograph. People will ask me how I did it, and I'll say "Did what? Oh, you mean create the single most utterly astounding story the world has ever seen? I guess it just came to me.". My story is going to end wars and bring unity to nations. My story will make people laugh, cry, sweat, and cry some more (sweat from their eyes). Oprah will be so impressed she'll give me my own late night talk show on her new network. And I'll have more viewers than Letterman and Leno combined, Eventually Conan and I will unite our shows together and people will cry out to the heavens that this is the best thing that has ever happened. Then, eventually Conan and I will unite our lives together. His wife and kids will be my wife and kids, my thirty two cats will be his thirty two cats.

It will all be merry and well. Until the glorgatrons come in and temporarily misplace Oprah and her network subsequently crashes. Then Conan and I will be forced to return to individual lives and take our careers in different directions. It will be sad, yes. There will be a memorial parade through New York, people will be sobbing. For the next two years every time either Conan or I step into public, flowers will be immediately thrown at our faces. We'll just laugh and say "atta boy" to ourselves. It's an endless, endearing love the wold feels for us.

But nothing lasts forever and a mere six years after the parade (four years after the flowers ceased to be thrown), people won't notice my presence in public. I'll be a person, nothing more. A few failed novels later I'll begin working at a laundromat, befriending the elderly owners. They won't like me at first, but I'll be better than the other dumb employees and win 'em over. Eventually the woman will suffer a traumatic car accident and refuse to leave her house. The man will be forced to sell the laundromat and look after her full time. I'll buy the laundromat with what little money I have squirreled away from my brief encounter with fame.

The laundromat is mine and it's all I've ever really wanted. Take away the book, return Oprah, hide Conan. Whatever. It's all about the laundromat now.

A scant fourteen years will pass and my skin will be coated with detergent, my eyes glazed with powder soap, and my clothes will be as clean as ever. Nobody ever said you can't sleep in a washing machine. Just four quarters and you're lost in the spin cycle.

Mazel tov.