In the end, I might be a shut-in, but I love my four walls. Sure, bombs could still pierce them and asteroids crush them, and then where would be my four walls? Wherever I would be, the walls would probably not be on my mind. But here they are, and say what you will, but they’re my favourite walls. I like them the way they are, stupid and unattractive–classless, something that would never be in a magazine, unless I were a famous person. This is my kind of ugly, the kind of ugly no one else never needs to see. That’s the real individuality, the kind of experience that only me and my germs will ever share. I live in a cube–but cubes are alright in my books.