Darren is a self-absorbed manic depressive whose biggest fear is that people aren't talking about him behind his back. Having never actually developed a lasting interest in anything, Darren has become a three-bit hack, capable of doing virtually anything as badly as the next guy. His dream in high school was to grow up to be clinically insane and draw into a fantasy world. He never achieved that dream and instead washed out, accidentally obtaining an M.S. in Nuclear Engineering. His life is currently spiraling down the toilet as he continues his dark, pitiable decline into getting a Ph.D. in cancer therapy research. He is lonely and sad for much of the time, which he masks with happy pastels and a Twinkee-laced dance. He is hopelessly twenty seven years old, despotically single, and an avid addict of adjectives and alliteration.

He draws, he drinks, he dreams. He writes, he rambles, he reads. Well, he doesn't really read often enough, but it's kind of got a similar assonance to "dreams," and putting "reams" down just didn't seem genteel. Which is not to say he doesn't read. He does. It's just not a defining factor in his life, like... well... Okay, he doesn't have any defining factors. Forget it was ever brought up. He bathes, he boozes, he breaths?

He's got his hands in his socks is what he's got.