Those destined to be remembered as great are often those most miserable while they live. Kurt Cobain, Salvador Dali, Elliot Smith, Edgar Allen Poe, Jaco Pastorius, Vincent Van Gogh, Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, etc. Those who paint with pigments created of their own blood, sweat or tears. Those tortured souls playing instruments made of their own heartstrings. Vocal chords ripped to shreds emitting pitiful wails or screams of woe. Those who are destined to be great, must suffer, and those who achieve such status without stepping on the backs of others are oft worse off, for they are the ones who sacrifice themselves selflessly to do for others. I have often felt that I am one of these... What picture will my blood paint? What music will my screams of torment create?