Somewhere lost in the Necropolis of SG<3.0. a boy made a wish to devolve and essentially become an amoeba that smoked clove cigarettes for nourishment and shed art as a waste product. That wish more or less came true.
Thirteen years ago I was shy, panic prone and anxiety ridden. I was an eloquent delinquent and a bleeding heart, whining about every personal injustice a 20-something white boy could post about. I wanted to be a socialite and/or sociopath because I thought there was little difference between the two.
Thirteen years later every drop of fear and anxiety sits waiting, The strength of the words faded.