*Your friends have forgotten what you look like. And when they do see you again (usually by accident, when they catch you skulking down the supermarket aisle because you realized three weeks without food was getting to you), they don't notice that you're unusually pale from all the time you spend indoors and that you now crawl like Quasimodo from all that time hunched over the computer. Huh. They thought you always looked like that.
*Your attempts to stay hydrated during the day involve martinis, vodka and any and all other kinds of alcoholic beverage. Money for rent? Nah. Money for booze? Hell, yes.
*Most of your visits into the great outdoors involve visiting your doctor, who is by now sick of hearing that you have carpal tunnel. Again.
*Your idea of a meal involves two-week-old tuna and that last hunk of cheese from last month's food shop.
*You dream of punctuation. Sometimes, you have nightmares where the punctuation turns giant-sized and tries to eat you.
*You keep the phone by you, even when you're deep in your Great Work, simply because you're waiting for that red-carpet invitation to the Oscars and to appear on a whole lot of chat shows to talk about said Great Work.
*When you ring your mother, she says, 'I'm sorry, who is this? You didn't mention your name...'
*Your spouse, who lives with you, has forgotten what you look like.
No, don't look at me like that. I'm not a Real Writer. Really.