I'm a nineteen year-old writer who's trying to come up with some wildly original bio, but can't. I feel stumped. Maybe it speaks to my lack of spontaneous creativity. Maybe it's a statement about my lack of self-identity. Maybe I'm just failing to be creative because I'm trying too hard -- I've always found my strongest ideas and insights happen anywhere but a brainstorming session. Whatever the reason, I find myself in a rare predicament for a male: I can't talk about myself. Even though I already discussed my failed attempts at creativity, I am still trying. Right now I'm trying. The level of creativity in using a confession of failure as a biography is certainly questionable, but after the first two minutes of being stumped, it's not about creativity. What it's about is honesty. I'm just going to keep writing, and everything I write will follow one requirement: it has to be the truth. Now I'm here, six or so sentences later, and I feel like this should be the end of my bio. So it will be.