I know it's petty and immature of me, but I'm just stunned that I wound up this beefy, bulgy, dumpy dickhead. I look like the kind of guy that I would avoid at a party because he would bore me to death with endless faux-cosmopolitan stories as if he were Mark Twain come back to walk among us. Like that idiot comedian PBS always trots out at fund-raising time, Mark What's-his-name. Fortunately, I'm too socially repressed to spin tales at parties, or even attend parties, come to that. Every time I start a self-portrait I tell myself this will be therapeutic and help me accept myself, warts and all or whatnot, and allow me to put this crap behind me and reach the higher plane where everyone else of consequence seems to reside, but it never works. I'm forever stuck in my role as the world's oldest angst-ridden teenager. Wait a minute, I'll bet it's the meds. That's it, I'm just in the throes of some side effect or other, and I should be grateful it's not 4-hour priapism or projectile diarrhea or something. I am seeing these pulsating colors, though, running through the entire garish spectrum as they form undulating octopi of rod-and-cone-searing light. Oh wait, that's my screen saver. Boundaries, Sparky, boundaries! Fuck!