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Emily Morrison Emily Morrison
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Thirty minutes of fame

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Do you crave fame? Do you crave fame?

Have you ever felt like you're on the verge of saying or doing something brilliant, but you just don't know what yet? In fact, you're so convinced that you will be revolutionary, you have already envisioned your 30 minutes of fame right down to the last millisecond.

If you're an athlete, you're hoisting the Lombardi trophy while the crowd goes wild. If you're a singer, you've just won 'The Voice' and Blake Shelton wants to do a duet before you do drinks later (though you're pretty sure he's crocked already). If you're a working fool, you're giving your speech at the Employee of the Year conference while that harpy shrew from accounting plasters a fake smile over her loser face. If you're a writer, you've just signed a movie deal after 10 straight weeks atop the New York Times Best Seller List. You're so profoundly talented, you pee excellence.

You've thought of everything that's soon to come your way: the house on the ocean, the envy of all of your friends, even the shirtless pool boy who drops by once a week to check the chlorine levels and trim the verge. Life in the spotlight will be grand. Your parents will tell people, 'We always knew that one was special.' Far-flung relatives will claim you as their closest relation and ask if you might 'lend them some money, if it's not too much trouble.' Your siblings will secretly curse your good fortune while vacationing with you on the yacht, and even your favorite aunt will claim she had some small part in propelling you to stardom.

And that's just your family. Those college friends who only used you for your car and your kind heart will start sending you friend requests on Facebook. 'Wow, congrats! You know, I always thought you were going places.' Of course, you'll deny them. Or you'll accept them, just so they can read your obnoxious posts about 'Lunch with the Obamas. That Michelle, what a spit-fire...' Or 'Jay-Z wants to collab. Don't know if I can fit him in between my boy J.T. and my girl Bey.' Then you'll un-friend them.

Next there's your hometown to consider. That popular girl who never invited you to drinking parties at her camp will sell your yearbook photo to 'People' and give interviews about your life-long friendship. That meathead you dumped after one month of dating will claim you jilted him at the altar, and though he's been married three times, he just hasn't been the same since you broke his heart. Of course, your best friends will remain silent and loyal. They've since moved into your mansion in the Hills where you and DiCaprio take turns throwing block parties. In fact, you all ride citi bikes together into town whenever you're working on an environmental project.

Parades will be thrown in your honor at Disneyland. When you're not busy saying or doing that brilliant thing you haven't thought of yet, you'll be donating millions to charity on behalf of the tired, the poor, the huddled masses. You may get some work done, a little rhinoplasty here, a little augmentation there, but those who know you will say, 'The fame hasn't changed you one bit. You're still the same down-to-earth genius you always were.' 

If only you could realize your potential. If only you could break into that secret brain bank where all of those great ideas are stored, but the crickets are chirping between your ears. The sun is setting, the clock is ticking, and right about now, you would settle for three minutes of fame, or however long it takes to collab with Jay-Z.

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