I like artificial in every flavor. I only hear what I want to. I've seen things I can't un-see. I speak in whispers, if I can even manage the courage to get that far. I suffer from chronic oppression, and as a result I often have a wishbone where a backbone ought to be. At 11:11 every night I make wishes. Habit and superstition feed my foolish fires. I am forever at the mercy of cleverness, because being clever is always easier than being honest, or being right. My essays start with a good thesis and follows up with complete nonsense. Which bears a striking resemblance to life, if you get the metaphor. My reality is filled with imagination and is incredibly lacking in motivation. I don't care for most things, but I appreciate everything. I ask too many favors from people who do too much for me. I'm more prone to cancer and liking cats according to my family history. I find that quoting other people to explain what I think is a lot easier than figuring out a simple order of words myself. Pretty unoriginal, but I'm not too creative anyways. (Which is a shame since I'm a self-proclaimed artist.) I'm okay with the thought of not having an afterlife knowing that my life was all for nothing, but it was something to a few people. Which is more than what I ever expected. When I'm down, I try to be an optimist. Happy thoughts bring happy things, right? Right.