He leaves anonymous posts on every blog he can find. He tells himself it's cheaper than therapy. He pours his troubles out to an empty form and leaves a fake email, so that no one can ever trace him back.
"I know how hard it is to never get a comment on something you've slaved over," he types, barely glancing up to see the comic above his words. "It hurts. I have never been recognized. When I was little, my mother used to take me shopping with her, and she lost me in the grocery store almost every time. I was a quiet child and she misplaced me easily. She never saw what I brought home from school, either. She glanced over it and said 'it's very nice' in a distant voice, and put it aside. Pictures, good grades, poems, stories. I once tried to perform a solo for her on my recorder and she sighed and told me 'can it wait? I have a headache.' So I will spend all of my years trying to measure up to this missing or distant mother, and never be praised for my accomplishments, so really is it