What we have here is a failure to communicate.

A misguided attempt to discover something about myself. Something genuine worth smiling for. It may be convoluted. It may be conspicuous. Hell, it might not even make any sense, but that's for you to decide upon and for me to not care about.

In the end, I’m only 23, and this is just a jumble of writings and typings, every so often in the moment, and I’m proud of it. The year was 2010, and I’d recently graduated.