It's now time for just the terror with Nick Guerra.

Emily. When I was younger I loved to draw. In hindsight I wasn't particularly good at it. There were certain aspects of art that I couldn't grasp faces for example. Most of mine were etched with the best will in the world, but they all ended up veering into

uncanny valley territory.

But at the time, none of that mattered.

A hobby was a hobby.

It was all for fun, nothing more.

When I was 17, I joined an art club.

This was after much persuasion for my parents and my literature teacher, Mr. Strongman.

I didn't have any friends, you see, and I think they all wanted me to get more out of my life.

My school work was sloppy, my social life non-existent.

I was missing a drive in my life and joining a society of like-minded artists was supposed to change all of that. I had reservations about

letting other people see my art. I've always been a reserved person ever since I was a child.

And all that cruelty I later experienced at the hands of other children in my classes at school only made my social anxieties more profound

I never showed my drawings to anyone not my parents my baby brother or even my pet dog scraps but now I would have no choice. That

said I didn't fight my parents when they dragged me to the community center that

Sunday afternoon, tin of crayons and paint brushes and hand. A part of me had quietly

yearned for social interaction and this seemed like the ideal place for me to finally

make some friends. Unfortunately this was easier said than done.

None of the other club members liked me very much.

They didn't appreciate it when I would offer them critique on their works.

Perhaps this was because I was too harsh. But I can honestly say I only had the best of intentions.

I thought that budding artists like me would welcome a critical eye with open arms,

...