Psychoanalysis wouldn't work if we tried it on people, but when we do, those people become disturbed. We hate mind-reading questions, and this is why I'm on the streets. I'm a schizophrenic psychoanalyst.

My portfolio file was thrown away. I've owned it since 2008, 17 years ago. It's gone today. May 20. Couldn't carry it down the streets from the day shelter. I kept most of the papers in my backpack, and threw away the 8lb dumbells inside.

All my family's dead. Both grandparents, dead from this world, their children, dead in the soul. I'm socially dead, maritally dead, but my heart beats on, sweet one. See, I'm a microcelebrity, forced to accept my narrow fame with certain pride, as it encompasses all of my life.

I'm manically depressed, but there is something more to it. I do have a big ego, but mostly, I'm being visited by over 3,000 remote-viewing aliens at once. I'm so famous, I could break things. That's what scares people.

At the end of the day, I'm a fancy boss with many responsibilities who can be trusted and relied upon, at least in the specific area of microcelebrity. The organization made of my own vast wealth ($0) is independent, crowd-funded, and the winner of an award. The only thing you have to put up with to keep it running is me.