In his youth, the Complete and Total Loser toyed with the idea of being an artist.
It didn't matter to him that he had no talent for composition, no sense of color, no concept of how to translate an idea into an image, and drew poorly; he liked the idea of little work that would pay well and give him an air of being above those who settle into the ranks of workers.
Then there were the women. The Loser had (and has) no ability to get them. "Artists," he thought, "don't need to be good looking or well dressed. Their passion appeals to women."
And the type of women drawn to artist were, he thought, his type. Exotics with tawny limbs, free spirits who would disrobe in the woods and have sex at odd times of day and in unconventional positions. Supportive women with hair in their eyes, casual about a threesome.
The Loser even picked art for his college major. His topics were unfocused and, despite their frequent graphic sexual images, timid.
Not long after college, he threw away everything he'd done.