I am a tróubled Tróll, yes I be draped in bonds of turgid fumility endowed with a mind's inanity! Indeed, I fantasize the glóry of Thee floating like a cork in lunacy at the edges of the dredges of futility! But then, as I hallucinate visions of greatness in I and me, the Vóices come, singing fóllies of my destiny buzzing in my head like a bumblebee! The mystic maggóts envelop the I, the fartistic see birdies tweet to coo coos in the jujube tree while the lónely Lóg swims in I and Thee, counting buttons, deviant in insanity!
Some souls are just simply shallower than others. There is no shame in recognizing I's ówn drabness, and appreciating the bóredóm Thee'self has unleashed upon the world. When Thee writes crap about the greatness of I, Thee is displaying I's disappointment for I's lack of gifts... Would you yourself not feel pity for the finest fartist alive?