I will offer you a description of you, yourself, because you're all narcissists!

You can't be famous if you take post vacation every now and then, you'll never be famous unless your post count reaches 5 digits or 4, you'll never be famous you blogger, you'll never be famous you untalented new guy, the fact of the matter is you gotta do something as fulfilling as making a bad-ass flash or an epic score.

The people you think are internet famous are famous to less than 1 percent of the world. And less than 1 percent of the internet, and less than 1 percent of this website.

I'm sorry, but it's the truth.

A package arrived in the mail for me today.

Thrilling stuff.

I walked on over from my office to the entrance to the garage.

I see that my wife has arrived from her vacation in Hong Kong.

I look at her, and with that one glance I have said "hello" and "how was the vacation" all at once. I am in awe of myself.

My wife replies with an enthusiastic "It was great!"

I then raise my eyebrow while a nearly undetectable smile forms on my face. I don't know how I do this.

She then calls my three children, Walter, Keith and Kurt.

I wave my hands and form a fist in both of my hands, except with the thumbs raised. This is also called a "thumbs up."

Walter replies with a sarcastic "Fantastic."

Keith optimistically tells me "I had a great time, dad."

Kurt didn't seem to hear me, but I am in too much of a lazy mood to walk up to him and personally ask him the question with actual words.

I then walk past my family and my prized sedan.

I find that I have stepped on a stray nail left on the floor. Presumably from a project of one of my sons.

I remove the nail entrenched into my slipper. I find it good that I decided to wear my plain slippers today.

I see a small collection of blood on my foot.

I inspect the nail for rust.

There is rust.

I wipe the blood off of my foot and clean the wound up with betadine and alcohol. I then see the wound fade away.

I continue on to the front porch. I see that my mailbox's flag is raised up.

I look inside of it and find an odd envelope.

It is labeled "For Boss."

I give it a further inspection, and I find that it is addressed to my home.

I do not recall being the boss of anything.

Some fear collects into my head, then it is replaced with indifference, then a slight of annoyance, then back to my predominant emotion; indifference.

I read the document inside.

"HEY BOSS,

THIS IS YOUR BOY JERMAIN.

I GOT A SPECIAL PIECE OF INFORMATION I GOT HERE FOR YOU-

My interest is piqued, only slightly though.

"IT'S ABOUT THIS FUNNY CARTOON I SAW ON TV TODAY

YOU WERE IN IT, AND YOU WERE BEING PORTRAYED in a most unnerving manner."

I am slightly puzzled by the sudden change in wording. There could be a man with schizophrenia out to get me, or there may simply be a strange man talking to his friend. Or something else that I am not aware of.

The letter seems to be cut short after that sentence.

I lose interest.

I walk back into my home and find my kids already settled down.

My son Kurt is watching television. I see on the screen my idol as a child, Rorscach from the Watchmen limited series comic book. I find his portrayal on screen interesting.

I join in on the television viewing. Rorscach being portrayed as an animal lover and nutty is true to the comic, but it is said differently. Actually, no, it's far away from the comic.

I see the Comedian wanting to kiss the second Silk Spectre. Incest I tell you, Incest.
But then I walk away, tussling my son Kurt's hair to greet him. My hand is mysteriously covered in grease. I guess Kurt is following in the footsteps of his namesake.

Then again, him saving up for an electric guitar should've already told me something. I initially recognized it as a coincidence for I bought a guitar from my friend in grade school at that age.

Or maybe he is following in my footsteps. I am in a very successful rock band after all; I never thought I'd be this successful at the young age of 34. I am a millionare, I have a smart, kind, loving and beautiful wife, I have three intelligent children and I have my dream middle-class suburban American home. I like the individuality, a home like this in a Filipino neighborhood of rich people sticks out, it tells you the owner is humble.

I find myself out of things to do other than the obvious "write a song."

But I don't want to write a song, no way, man.

I'll leave that to my bandmates, they don't write anything, I give them some sheet music and a MIDI version of the song I have written, and they just rehearse. I'm always at the practice sessions too.

What makes this even worse, is that they think that they are contributing a huge portion to my cause, but they aren't. I could go in the footsteps of Tim Lambesis and record it all by myself one instrument at a time.

Bah, never mind about that, I'm getting arrogant again.

Be Right Back.

with only the clothes on my back and the love in my heart.

OKAY, SO IT WENT LIKE THIS

Dearest internet

I am fucking thankful for getting v&- I MEAN BANNED. Fucking thankful that I never ever have to see any of you

again.
Since I never have to see or hear from you again, I am going to vent about
how much I hate you all.

Since the very first day on /b- I MEAN NEWGROUNDS
You all, made my life the fucking biggest living hell ever, and I will
never, ever forgive any of you for it.
You all made my confidence drop in a snap and I haven't gotten it back yet,
you all made me fall into depression and have given me fucking mental issues
that I don't think I'll ever get better from.

Why the fuck did you do this to me? Why? What the hell did I ever do to you?
I mean, I always sat alone and NONE OF YOU EVER FUCKING ASKED ME IF I WAS
OK.

BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T FUCKING CARE.
You all hate me, and for those that I tried to be friends with, you used me
and you never liked me.
Even though I tried.
I TRIED TO BE FRIENDS.
But no, I'm really glad I didn't.

Because at the start of 2009, I realised what a bunch of fake dickheads
you all really are.

Acting the same, dressing the same, liking the EXACT SAME FUCKING THINGS.
What happened to being original, huh?
Oh that's right, you're FAKE, you don't know what being original is.

And don't any of you fucking dare say that you tried to be friends with me,
or tried to be nice to me, because you didn't, you made my life a living
hell.

COOLPOINTS TO THE COOLCATS WHO GET WHAT KIND OF PASTA I JUST COOKED THAR

I changed your password so no one could steal it.
I will send your account back within three days.
Dont worry I will treat it with care.

So, I decided to mess with Ng.

let them mess around with my account.

now I have a 30 day ban