I oft look upon thyself and scowl, how shall I compete with these brilliant minds these beautiful faces. For they are content they do not stare deep in thyselves and ponder the same question that I so often do. The question of self worth, the question of how canny or funny or charming oneself is. They to are not the perfect person, but it would seem that even their faults would be a brilliant comparison to mine. The farther my asunder from thee the more my appetency grows. My assay at the ways of fashion are to regularly at fault. And yet I still try, my blunder increasingly more obvious and almost always at defect.

And though I know I am not alone in my ignorant lust I feel as if though my need to be acknowledged far surpasses any person that feels as I do. And now I wait for the day, the moment, the epiphany that will bring back to my normal and perfect senses, my own senses. I need not to be someone else, but my own self. And though it is a popular tenet to be loved and liked by fellow peers, it must stop at some extent. And now I wait, for when I realize how good it is to be you.