I can only draw round things.

This is somewhat true of me. At various times of my life and for various reasons, I have cribbed from comic strip lords in poster, comic, and note form. But I have only ever really attempted to draw round characters. The Peanuts. Ziggy. That sort of lot. I'm not having you on when I say that I am only able to draw round things. It's nearly accurate, if a slight exaggeration. I might be able to manage the occasional triangle, as well.

It's all very discouraging to me. Studio art I never studied. A blank primed canvas was never touched by me. But I do so yearn to have that gift. To paint or to draw or to scribble with adeptness. I have bought many of the implements. And I immerse myself in the brilliance of the masters whenever I can. No one in my income bracket supports more museums than I do. And no one buys more weighty monographs filled with thick, glossy color plates. All part of my ingenious strategy to somehow become talented without ever actually trying. Books will be written about me. I'm sure of it.

I used to draw. Quite often actually. In a little journal with small loose leaves of lined paper and six metal rings. I'm almost afraid to go back and look to see whether I was ever any good. The truth might actually gouge my eyes out. And I need them right now.

I ran today. And it was bloody hot out there. I ran until my lungs ached. It made me proud to suffer. I think there is something wrong with me.