I was standing in my local Starbucks looking at my Notes app. It was going to be a long and terrible day.  For both of us, it was going to be a productive day. I invited my friend Michael to coffee. Michael and I had been drifting apart for a couple of months and I wanted to be honest with him. I wanted to tell him all that was going on with me, about turning 30 and that it made me feel lost.

My life and career hadn't turned out the way I wanted them to. When I was a young man I had dreams of being a writer. At the age of 10 I'd written two short stories that had gotten A's, and my teacher had praised them for a great try. And I knew from then on, it was my destiny to write great novels, like William Faulkner, Harper Lee, and Shakespeare.

I hadn't done that. I got distracted by college, relationships, and brewing my own beer. Even though I said I was a writer several times to people, I never could show them anything I had finished. I started to examine why this was when I had a dream of winning the Nobel Prize.

I hadn't even done that yet. I mean,  I was already 30 years old. Life was moving past me so I realized that I don't value my own time.  As a young person I foolishly did things like go out on dates and make friends with people who could not advance my dreams. Not one of my friends was attempting to be a writer of the next Great American Novel. Most of them were getting jobs for big companies instead of fighting against the man.

I realized that if I were to pursue my dreams, I needed to end the so-called friendships in my life. They weren't even friendships. Although it was tragic to admit Michael had no value to me as a friend. He was just some guy I had known for 20 years. In a way it wrapped me with guilt that these people would think I was their friend. We barely shared anything in common, except our mutual love of William Faulkner. The fact that we went to the same elementary school together; we were college roommates, and I lived with his family for five years. I don't know where our friendship drifted apart. I mean, after he got published we stopped hanging out as much as we used to.

I remember the old days when our friendship started. I would go on for hours about how good the Sound of the Fury was, and how I was reading Infinite Jest. Michael used to be quiet and listen to what I had to say. Then our friendship drifted. I don't know why it was hard to talk to him all of a sudden. He would say, "Oh, you inspired me to start writing and I wrote a few short stories, Jack. The Paris Review is interested in my story. I could help you with your writing.” It just became hard to talk to him.

Mike smiled at me and said, "Hi. It's good to see you. How long has it been, two months?"

"Time is a flat circle," I said

"Ohh! Did you watch True Detective?"

"No, I saw that clip on YouTube. It looks good. but the fact they ripped off Thomas Ligotti's The Conspiracy Against the Human Race is awful. I love that book."

"Oh, did you read that?"

"No, no, I did not."

"So Max, how has life been?" he said.

"I cherish our friendship, but that season of our life needs to be over. I don't have the capacity to care about you anymore."

Michael started to cry a bit. It was crazy.

"Listen Michael, I know you're hurt, but we needed to discuss this."

"Why would you do this?" he said.

"It's very important to me that you know this. We were never friends to begin with, right? Like we were hanging out because we were being polite to each other."

"I wish you said you hated me," he said.

"I am trying to be nice."

"No, you're not."

"It's important to be honest."

"You are an awful writer. There, happy I was honest.”

Obviously, he didn't mean that; he was just saying that because he was hurt, and I understand that departing with me is awful. I punched him in the face and he filed an assault charge against me.