This morning I figured:

(1) The reason I'm so thin is because sadness kills my appetite; I'm a love poet.

(2) I keep thinking about how, in order to complete the aesthetic of a damaged artist, I need even longer and even messier hair and a never-ending supply of cigarettes. I want to be the black Albert Camus.

(3) I'm obviously very, very bored because I've never smoked anything in my life.