I used to want to be an artist when I was little. I was constantly drawing and painting—mostly about whatever fandom I found myself in at the time—and doodling on the margins of my notebooks to distract myself during class. I was so careless about it; I genuinely did not care how my drawings looked, and as you can imagine, a ten-year-old’s drawings might not be the best. The magic for me was in the process. Knowing how much I enjoyed making them made each piece feel museum-worthy, even if they clearly weren't. As I grew older and my skills improved, something in the process shifted; drawing started to feel grueling. I felt like no matter how hard I tried, my work was never good enough. I began creating hyper-realistic pieces—each one costing me countless hours and a lot of neck pain—and if they didn’t perfectly resemble a photograph, I felt like a failure. This quickly turned me into a sort of perfectionist maniac, forcing me to leave behind the passion that had once brought me so much joy. Now that AI has made its way into the visual world, I have started drawing again. The last thing I want to create, though, is anything realistic or polished. I want to draw abstract, imperfect, ironic pieces—the kind that remind me that flaws are exactly what make us human.