I am 19 years old, yet everything about me suggests I am least 45. I go to a university no-one's heard of, studying a course no-one's quite sure about. I supplement this educational apathy with various other distractions: I write poetry, which swings violently from the pretentious to the miserable, mostly about pigeons and trains; I play hockey to a decidedly average standard, somehow becoming Captain along the way; I present a radio show, where for two hours a week I give off a vague air of control, which is swiftly revealed to be false. I act occasionally, and drink not quite enough for it to be a major problem. There is really very little else of note about my life.