You will always be the chubby, from-the-middle reject, full of tiny ideas in this big, crazy, western coast. Your closet-gay father will never love you in any way wanted. Nor your redneck, survivalist mother that disowned you. You think creativity is being random. You say asshole, bitch, or shit, in public, and call it sophisticated. You will never write the Great American Novel, not even the cheeky, trend-of-the-week paperback. You side-track life with self-made distraction and drama, never admitting busy is safer than greatness. You will always be valedictorian in your one-horse town, and your store-bought gifts could only guilt me to stay so long. You will always feel fat, overworked, underpaid, and worthless, just the way Cosmo tells you. No amount of switching jobs, or states, or beds you get fucked in will change that.