tr3ntzor[oastrianist]

I'd like to meet:

I am not different. Uniqueness isn’t something to be proud of. You could sit around all day, smoking dope, eating churros, and dancing on your couch, being unique, but I won’t like you any more, or any less. I am not substantial. I alternate hands when eating, but does anyone care? “I think not,” Mr. Baranby, the imaginary man in my attic, says. I twiddle my thumbs when I am bored, for good reason; thumb twiddling is the most vigorous finger-moving activity. I hit the spell check button frequently, regardless of how many or how few red and green squiggles fill the page. I endlessly squabble about my feeble existence. My skin remains pale. The sun is out to get you, just ask the telemarketer, he or she knows all about it. I am wondering if I should think about starting a new paragraph. Looking out of context, my English teacher once told me to start a new paragraph with each new idea, but ideas flow out of my mind a thousand RPMs, to dumb it down for you. Stone’s throw, stone throws, it doesn’t matter; I judge my own vocabulary. Eggs? Scrambled, please. Am I sounding like an Alexandria to you? Because, if I am, you’ll find that I am batting a thousand. Sam, I am, not. I live where the sidewalk ends.