A Narcissist's Masterpiece

I don't know whether it was the seven beakers of orangeade, or a signal from some divine higher being that perhaps the degree I was scanning over in the prospectus was the one for me; but my hands suddenly ached for an outlet. My fingers ricocheted off the keyboard as the urge to create- to be a creator of something to be admired, to be envied- flowed from my aching mind, down my pale arms covered in goose pimples and scars, and sizzled upon contact with the keys which transferred my frenzied thoughts to the screen. I marvelled at the mere sight of myself - forever a narcissist, I was impressed. I seemed so intellectual, so prepared to conquer the writing world, here in my own small corner of cyberspace. I had become comfortable in my niche, my usual poems and prose vaguely hinting towards a yearning for that certain someone. Archetypal, clichéd, morose... these were the only available words to describe my work. Until I created a new one of course, which I could... but who is to say that I would? Anyway here I was - here I be - w-o-m-a-n - that I am, hunched over in the most unfeminine manner possible; positively- perpetually, infact, mannish in my productive state. I had shaken off my former self, I was no more one of the ten-a-penny teen angst poets, I was something better, something more. I was the one. The next big thing. The enigma that is me. Shaking, sweating, swearing under my breath slightly, I slowly slid away from the buzzing metal and plastic beast in front of me, and realised that the masterpiece was a mere documentation of my very state. In other words; this is it.1