It's obvious: there is something wrong with you. Oh, you want the quick version of what this means so you don't have to self-analyze about it all, because you know you're going to do that to death? Tough shit, there's a huge wall of text here, and you're addicted to knowing things and finding out, so you're going to continue reading on anyhow.
You're the epitome of contrasts, the perfect imperfection. You're always up to something. In a paradoxical circumstance of lacking a profound and concrete 'goal' or 'desire', you're, at all times, spending your hours working towards something inconsequential; from these small acts of compulsive procrastination inevitably builds an avalanche, often completely dissociated from the initial task. An idle joke becomes a self-aware philosophical musing, an hour of putting together a puzzle turns into poring over an entire artform. You have never once in your life gone from a pre-determined point A to point B; instead you reach not even a point C, but something akin to a point Q, and find great joy in that stupendous moment. And then you forget, or get distracted, or remember you're always tired, and promptly move on to the next thing.
While you may be bouncing around like a bad animation showing the effects of an increase of energy on a gas particle, you're still one of many in a barrel of protagonists. Even if you take your own story away from the camera from time to time, you're always back in time for curtain call. You accidentally built a facade through extensive TV Host Brain training. Scatter-brained, jumpy, absurd to the public; sophisticated, selfless, charmingly eccentric in truth. Your biggest influences are those things that you enjoy most, and that list crucially includes the few whose own mental illnesses mesh well enough with yours to render them dear to you. Look at you, you charismatic jerk-of-all-trades.
