He had been happier when he was unhappy.

It was difficult to fully explain; his days of being an asocial shut-in were, upon reflection, paradoxically better than his life now. The words had flowed then, from his mind to his keyboard to the story, he could see and imagine vividly what he did not have.

Now, with a college degree, a good job, a new car, a girlfriend and a house in the hills, he was a markedly happier, and thus unhappier, man. He couldn't finish anything he set his mind to. His efforts were as half a page of scribbles, trailing off as the minutia of his life took over.

That was partially why he'd convinced his girlfriend Alice to help him get into BSDM, and why he was currently tied up, naked, blindfolded, and bleeding from his mouth. In idea, he thought, I just need an idea, a single good idea, to make this hell worth living. I need to create, I need to build, I need to put SOMETHING on paper, or I'll just fade away like the

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the-arraignment (joined almost 10 years ago)

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