I’ve never been good at anything. Or rather, I’ve always been mediocre at everything—a half-formed polymath of mediocrity, a dilettante in the art of underachievement. Even in high school, my height—a gangly 6’4’’—only made me more conspicuous in my inadequacy. While others were ascending their social hierarchies, I loitered like a gawky giraffe, shadowing the fringes of human interaction with an unsettling mix of arrogance and shyness, convinced that every whispered conversation was a covert indictment of my ineptitude. I wanted to play sports, but coordination eluded me like an ethereal muse. I aspired to charm girls, but the closest I got to intimacy was a lingering whiff of strawberry shampoo in the hallways, the olfactory phantom of my unattainable classmates.

It’s as if my entire existence has been a study in derivative mediocrity—aspiring to heights only to plummet into depths of laughable inadequacy. Even now, I write from the crucible of failure, a failed economist blogging about academic scandals and the political malaise of our time, driven less by intellectual fervor and more by a desperate desire to matter. A man born of a sperm donor—a literal, biological abstraction—writing to fill a void that is as ontological as it is psychological.

Being Canadian is just another layer of this insignificance, a nation too polite to even acknowledge its own irrelevance. I can’t even blame the failings of my life on a mythologized "father figure" since mine was probably some equally inconsequential graduate student making fifty bucks for his genetic material. My paternal inheritance is less legacy and more liquidity. No wonder I’m a virgin—a tepid cliché, even in my own emasculation.

Writing was supposed to be my salvation, the final recourse for a mind incapable of asserting itself in reality. But every sentence I construct feels labored, every paragraph a monument to my inability to translate thought into prose. And yet, I persist—not out of hope, but because what else can a failed economist do? The numbers were never my allies, but at least they had the decency to reject me outright. Language, however, is a treacherous co-conspirator, always hinting at clarity but delivering only confusion.

So here I am—a maladroit blogger, a 6’4’’ male virgin, son of a sperm donor, Canadian, the caricature of every failed aspiration wrapped in a veneer of verbosity. I wield words not as tools, but as blunt instruments, battering sense into submission. Perhaps that’s the cruel irony of my existence: I’m a writer who can’t write, documenting a life I barely lived, striving for significance in a medium that mocks my every attempt. But still, I persist. Not out of delusion, but because, in the end, what else is there for someone like me?

If I am, as they say, a loser, then at least let me be the most prolix one. Because failure, when articulated in overwrought prose, almost feels like accomplishment. Almost.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5604102&forum_id=2\u0026mark_id=5310690",#48148353)

Dreams die on an empty page,

Failure finds its voice.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5604102&forum_id=2\u0026mark_id=5310690",#48148364)

(cant write w/o chatgpt)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5604102&forum_id=2\u0026mark_id=5310690",#48148385)