In the middle of rush hour, you attempt to morph wyvern and hoist your passenger.
Or call home and ask for a gate.

You get the strangest looks when you're sitting restaurant disucussing the jerk you killed last night
Or the jerk who killed you.
Or how upsetting it is to be on fire and have no mending...

You are incredibly disappointed when eating ginseng doesn't do a damn thing for that nagging puking and falling over after a few (dozen) shots of tequila.

You have the uncontrollable urge to incinerate your coworkers.

You constantly refer to your buddies by names no one else knows them as.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Valnuary, in the year 261 AF.