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As a regular unleaded gaseous, (i.e. papa's seminal afterthought) begat male genetically wrought, I valued myself as naught with abilities pegged at being average, yours truly sought to camouflage himself ducked as if a scared mandrake, and/or, who oft times didst cower, and shrink wrought mine puny body into an homunculus, methought to imagine myself as an invisible boy, when cornered and nearly caught as dead meat, (especially when threatened by bullies, brandishing their taut fists, this then wimpy kid never fought peers that seemed big as a dreadnaught), essentially, I wished tubby totally tubular nonexistent, and as a poor substitute wrought natural inclination took root re: blend with background, sans wallflower, nee weekly fought the irresistible urge to begone, what meth hood would make Matthew Scott Harris permanently vamoose, hmm... how to stop breath, thus hit on what seemed timely novel idea, without asking Seth Thomas, viz lit up, asper starving body to death hence final solution, would put to rest, and terminate subsequent cruel shocking one after another electric kool aid acid test solely predicated on feeling insignificant at best basically a sense of resignation lacking any outstanding trait, lest you count picking nose, where underneath desk collected nest of buggars, thru deep digging, but never finding gold, via nasal passage quest, hence reiterating existential theme, aye felt no good even as a nobody, but more akin to an unwanted guest secretly embarking on a deadly mission fed in part by lacking athletic skills, particularly addressed when sporting rough necked bruisers oppressed to destroy any vestige of self worth, this former pint size lad, who lastly mentioned hapt tubby, the but of every jest.