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I apologise in advance for the maudlin tone that this and future entries may take. Nothing has gone wrong in my life, per se. The same problems are there, give or take a few. But at the tail-end of a short academic quarter, with my vacation plans and idle friendships ground into silt, and with the simultaneous termination of more than a few relationships, I’m finding myself in darker and darker moods.
It’s nothing debilitating. I’m getting work done at varying paces. But a sense of inevitable personal failure creeps over me, wraithlike, as I go about anything. Most of my rancid emotions can be explained away by the soul contamination wrought by Angela. That whole experience, twisted and grasping as it was, put me in touch with a number of sensations and realities that were green to me, known second and third hand through movies and observances. Really, it should have baptised me and soaked away the fears of my that have nagged me for a decade – specifically, that it was impossible for anyone to become enamoured of me. But it didn’t, really. It now seems that while it’s possible, and maybe even likely, for girls to entertain the idea of dating me. But it doesn’t seem like they can find the gumption to fall for me. That thoughtless obsession that drives people to toss out their lives and build new ones … the kind that I would say only happens in movies, if I didn’t know so many jackasses who’ve worked the model perfectly. I don’t see it happening to me. And why I care, I don’t really know.
This is absurdly personal. I’m forgetting that anyone can log on and read this. What the hell am I shooting for by posting this all up?
Who knows. It’s spontaneous. Maybe something will come of it.

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