Stolen because it deserved to be.

"Five minute – 10:36 AM
Who am I? I ask it again, like I have thousands upon thousands of times since I first realized that I wasn’t what I thought I was. Ballie and my great preoccupation. Perhaps the preoccupation of others. When it turns out that you’re not Superchristling, that you never were, never could be, never were supposed to be, but that’s what you’re mind is full of, that’s what it sees itself as. Let’s say you were a boxer, trained by a father that was a boxer that never quite achieved the potential that he thought he had. You’ve been trained to be nothing but a boxer, all you know is gyms and sweat and punches and footwork and pain and endurance. That is everything, that is your all, and you’ve never imagined yourself as being anything else. But then, one day, you leave your father’s gym and step out into the world and are forced to reconcile with the fact that you’re not a great boxer, you were never meant to be, and, to be quite frank, the world has no place for a would-be-great-boxer. You’re left standing there, wondering, then what the fuck am I? Am I fish or fowl? Bread or milk? And every place that you come to, every character you step into, you have to say, “no. I’m not one of you,” after a while, you realize that no matter what role you step into, it’s never going to quite fit. You are a great boxer. Your mind is carved so that the strings of thought flow though it towards one destination – great boxer. I am not a great boxer. I am little else. What am I?"

-Spike