I'm a loser, a freak, an outcast. I am untethered from society, and will never feel the warm embrace of fraternal love and community you all take for granted. "Why?" you may ask. "You seem like a perfectly nice guy. You're wearing a halfway decent shirt, no food stains or anything." Well, brace yourself:

I don't have a single idea for a movie or a television show. Not a single one.

"C'mon," you'll say. "Not even an idea for a reality show where people jump off something, or don't eat enough, or eat way too much? Or a Pixar-type movie, with, like, a family of pinecones?" Sorry, friend. Nothing. Not for a bare-breast-riddled Bruckheimer-esque shoot-'em-up, or even a quirky, stylized indie you couldn't keep Jason Schwartzman out of with a restraining order.

I can't even think up a politically charged A&E miniseries.

I thought I had an idea for a movie once. But after I worked on it for what seemed like months, I discovered it was just a roast chicken recipe. I was unbelievably excited that I finally had a mainstream entertainment idea, and I’ll never forget how crestfallen I was upon explaining my "film" to a friend:

"And then, when you least expect it, the oven is preheated to 450 degrees. The potatoes have been peeled and washed, but where's the baster, you're thinking? Where's the baster? Well, it turns out—"

Juwayriyyah gently stopped me, explaining my mistake.

"But it sounds like a pretty good roast chicken," she said, trying feebly to console me. "B-plus, for sure."

I wish this is the first time that had happened. I can't tell you how many police procedurals I thought I had come up with only to discover they were ideas for new kinds of fake novelty poo, or office sitcoms that ended up being nothing more than detailed plans for a renewable energy source.

Useless. I’m absolutely useless. Even a two-year-old could come up with a TV show logline! It wouldn't be Sorkin caliber, but it would still be an idea! Hell, I bet even a dog could produce a beat sheet for a short feature.

Heh. That's kinda interesting: a dog who's the head of a movie studio…he's probably got a cat for a secretary, and they don't get along. He'd reject any project about love, 'cause his mom got put to sleep when was a puppy…but then a beautiful production assistant collie would come along, and you liberally salt and pepper the cavity of the bird before you truss it, using butcher’s twine; if you have the time, you can deglaze the roasting pan with red wine, and then reduce it to make a nice...

Damn it! I give up. I’ll just have to reconcile myself to never making any sort of real connection with another person, because I cannot understand the most basic form of human communication—talking about ideas for movies and TV shows.

I guess I'll just keep being a stupid volunteer pediatric surgeon in war-torn sub-Saharan Africa, working with my beautiful physician fiancée to save young lives as bloodthirsty militias close in. Just some schmo who’s also at war with his personal demons, having betrayed his future wife for a woman in a nearby village, a lust that could prove deadlier than any army.