I need someone to obsess about. I need someone to think about when I'm alone. I'm writing you love letters in my sleep. I don't even understand why my brain chose you to focus on, but it happened and it's getting worse.

I hate you.

The characters I meet continue to fall into predetermined categories in my mind. The characters in this cheap novel, this b-budget film I call my life, are all recycled. The more I struggle to stand-out the more I realize the paradox I face: Continual change is fodder for a capitalist system. Capitalism in its present, globalized form does nothing to help individuals become who it is that they want and can be. Do I actualize myself and continue making products that the system can monetize or do i fight like a cog who struggles aginst the turning of the wheels around him?