When I was young, I liked to write sour fairy tales for my own entertainment and to impress others in a small circle. But when I reached an age where dreams were just dreams, all that was left was cold papers piled up with literature. I haven't thought about it for a long time, and my hormones have been causing trouble recently. What follows will be a soliloquy mixed with absurd words, logical thinking, and neurotic jumps. The so-called nonsense written all over the paper smells like snot.