In my little apartment.

In my little apartment I sit,
Tracing over lines that someone else drew.
I have little talent of my own;
I can draw a pretty mean stick-ninja,
and on occasion I can say something clever.
I know plenty of facts about things that, while interesting,
are of little use to anyone.

I can pose an action figure;
I can mix Iced Tea.
I can even organize my comic books alphabetically
by publisher, author and title.
I have an uncanny ability to tell a bad joke
at the most inappropriate times; many of which
are in delightfully poor taste.

In my little apartment I sit,
with my head planted firmly on the desk,
hands tightly grasping my hair
(which is quite thick and lustrous, by the way)
while my brain stews in it's thick and savory sauce.
It could use a dash of salt, and maybe some chili powder.