But today, I was walking along the embarcadero and saw a person there, head in his hands, wallowing in despair.
"I used to be a font, you know," he said to me when I gave him a concerned look, "Now I'm a person. How did that happen? What does that even mean? I don't know. It's claustrophobic here, being in only a single body rather than a broad swath of text. I had a purpose then, clean and simple; now I'm plagued with a terrifying maze of needs and possibilities."
"What font were you?" I asked him. I was working under the assumption that the traits that the font had would in some way be reflected afterwards into parallel human traits, perhaps to humorous effect.
He told me what font he was, but I didn't recognize it.
"Of course you don't recognize it," he said, "If you did, I would still be out there. As a font. As I should be."
"Were you san serif?" I asked, because that's about the only thing I could think to say.
He just shook his head sadly.
"I would like to go back to being a font," he said, slumping back down again.