I am fully aware of my own foolishness. I am ignorant and pretentious and unaware and stupid. Only a fool would think himself knowledgeable, genuine, informed, or intelligent. So I contradict myself; fully knowing the transparency of the attributes to which I have assigned myself, I allow my fantasy. There is nothing good about me, and I know this. But I refuse to think it. In the back of my mind I will, until I mature and grow, hate what I am, but refuse to believe that I am it.