There is a data point from when I was 14 years old, based on a several hour long German-test professionally-administered occupational group-setting examination, that claims at that particular point in time I was smarter than 99.7 percent of my peers, with the weight of Galton's statistical instruments. The statistical absurdity of such a rarity has both instilled in me the paranoid delusions: of poor handling of the testing apparatus; of an inflationary scamming psychologist; of everyone receiving the title of the so-called "intellectual superiority" for some either nefarious or white-lie reasons. In parallel and ensuing, I have had twisted feelings of both arrogance and profound insecurity upon that discovery, dreading not only the fools in my vicinity but the missed mark of my potential. These have lead me to pursue reckless risks, especially after discovering critical periods, synaptic pruning, and the fact all of my natural intelligence would reach its highest point in the sky before my 17th year and plummet thereafter, as is the case with every person without a traumatic brain injury in adolescence. Now my acid-addled psyché, with the stressful and traumatizing frictions of my teenage abuse, both within and without, floats in the limbo of post-lockdown NEETdom. My catatonic insanity, wishing to break down and laugh in traumatized hysteria, at odds with my mobilizing rationality, each of the two sparing for the control of my lethargic corpus.