A Brief History...

... of my emotional love life:
I find a girl; I impute to her my perfect girl after a brief comment she makes about something which I overanalyse and consider evidence of a vast intelligence.; we're necessarily separated by something (often her leaving or me leaving or a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a significant age gap or a facilitator/delegate relationship or some combination of the above). The leaving happens, absence makes the heart grow fonder, I declare, she rejects, I pretend I never cared and find the next one.

... of my physical love life:
A girl finds me cute in a hurt puppy kind of way; she throws herself at me; then either she realises I'm a freak or I realise she's a freak and we move on.

... of my search for what I want in life:
Does she not exist? Surely I should celebrate finding anyone who could simply cope with a man who keeps magnets in his car just because they're cool.

... of my blog:
http://me.mjec.net/index.old.html username michael password cordover

A quick insight

I thought this might be informative for those who don't suffer anxiety disorders. People don't get it when I stay home sick but don't call work. "Just a quick phone call or a text message, that's all we ask." Well, too bad, I can't.

I have what must be descirbed as a very mild social anxiety disorder and very mild depression. I've thought about suicide but never attempted. I've thought about self harm and once or twice I tried to cut my finger deliberately but I only drew blood once. I'm not suffering as many people suffer. But sometimes life is hard.

Social anxiety is all about a fear of rejection. We all know what it's like to be rejected; it sucks. The reason anxiety is different is because it's just pretty stupid. I fear rejection in every situation, even situations where it doesn't make sense. When I am rejected it hurts so much it makes a cost-benefit analysis clearly against trying anything.

What's more, because I'm human, and because I know rationally that things really aren't so bad, I hate the idea of people pitying me, of not rejecting me but wanting to, because they don't want to hurt me. That makes me angry, mostly at myself. I absolutely don't want that. At the very least it's not a good treatment for my anxiety. I have to learn to deal with this.

I'm going to give you a quick, though not recent, example. I have never used cheques myself. I am not a cheque person, having banked only after the invention of Internet Banking and ubiquitous EFTing. I was once, however, given a cheque in payment for some tutoring I did. Other times this has happened I've put the cheque in a deposit envelope and the money has turned up in my account days later. Being out of money on that day and a bit hungry, I went to get it cashed - that is, to withdraw cash. I did this at my bank. The cheque, however, was not drawn on that particular bank.

Those readers with an understanding of financial matters will recognise that of course this won't work. Banks aren't in the business of handing out cash on presentation of little bits of paper. So when I tried to present my cheque to the teller I was told this couldn't happen, because it wasn't drawn on this bank, but would I like to deposit it. I replied no thank you and left. Once outside the bank, I cried a little bit. I didn't eat, instead walking around the city avoiding eye contact with everyone until I had to go wherever I was going that day. The feeling of rejection stayed with me for nearly two days. That afternoon I couldn't concentrate, I was too busy thinking what an idiot I was.

Was I an idiot? No. Was the teller particularly mean? No. That's what makes it a disorder. And it really hurt, that sort of physical pain in your stomach of utter humiliation. It's absurd. But that's what it's like. That's the risk I face every time I interact with anyone, for any reason. Some person's reaction to me may set me off, totally irrationally. As I say, that's what makes it a disorder, the fact that it's absurd and ridiculous and dare I say it, crazy.

This is why I don't do things. I hate that I have missed opportunities, from that time in grade one I could've spoken to that kid, through to just yesterday when I could've spoken to that guy. I hate this utterly because I know how capable I am. I know I could do it. I just don't because I fear what my fucked up brain chemistry could do to me if I do.

So much for quick. Sorry.

Eye contact by the Woodbride bus

I was walking through the dark and quiet streets of Hobart just now. I had skirted the busy Salamanca strip, passed the waterfront, just warming up, and I was heading towards the buses. There aew lots of people around, for sure, but they are all of my mind: it's the end of the day and it's time to go home. Exhaustion is part of it. Another part is just enjoying solitude for a moment; relaxing.

To enhance this effect I'll frequently listen to music. I'm not alone in this practice either. Shuffle being what it is, Snow Patrol's Run is playing. I do quite like this song but it's not in my usual rotation. I'm not sure I've consciously known its name before. The scene is set.

The song has just started and I'm striding along past Treasury, though the dark patch towards the buses. My walk is more purposeful than usual, truthfully because I'm imagining I'm at the end of a movie. Or maybe a middle bit where the character is going on their solo journey and has to leave the mentor behind. Of course all I was leaving behind was the pub (not that I went to the pub. I was invited to the pub, made an abortive trip all the way to Salamanca and decided I didn't want to go, for all the usual socially anxious reasons. Whatever. I don't really like pubs anyway. They're noisy and expensive and either too hot or too cold).

As I approached the Kingston bus stop (the only one where people line up, as the facebook group proudly, honestly proclaims) where the bus to Woodbridge was taking passengers, I made accidental eye contact with a young lady of around my age who was wearing a red sweater. You know this phenomenon. You're wandering along and find that you've accidentally looked at someone's eye while they're looking at yours. I did the proper thing and looked away. As my eyes flitted around further, I noticed that this girl (curly dark hair; that's all i can reconstruct) was still looking to me. We made eye contact again. I wasn't sure what to do now. I panicked and looked away again, returning only to find that her eyes still held mine. I smiled, briefly, and kept walking. She got on the bus. And it was over.

Her eyes said something but I'm not sure what. It wasn't laughter but it was happy. I'm convinced she knew why I was walking funny.

revelations

TMM is CTL.

Social Media

I really like facebook and twitter and stuff. They give me more opportunities for social interaction than I would otherwise have. They keep me up to date on gossip. They have normalised online interaction.

But.

There is one very big but.

I can see everything everyone does. That's nice, it's interesting. The trouble is that I feel so left out. I even intrude on my friends' conversations to try to improve my rep. Most of all though I see just how few @replies I get and how infrequently people post on my wall. How much more popular other people are. It hits me hard, right in the self-esteem. And then it makes me sad.

say something retarded day

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2010/03/04/2836812.htm
http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2010/03/04/2836753.htm
http://mjec.blogspot.com/2010/03/crappy-epiphany.html

I guess I started it?

It's important to note that there is a reason nothing is deleted from my blog. I think one should be able to own their past. Even if what I have said is stupid or disgusting or ridiculous... I keep it because I once thought it. I don't necessarily think it now. But because I once thought it I think it's reasonable to recall it. Record it. Whatever. Why just use memory when I can keep the real thing around?

Also important to note, while we're on blog policy, is that I never mean to hurt or offend or anger anyone. If my writing does so, please let me know.

crappy epiphany

I had an epiphany in the past hour or so.

I've spoken before of how sex isn't real to me. I think I explained it badly back then and I'll struggle similarly now. When I think of my friends having sex... well, I can't. I simply can't imagine it. The two elements are so distinct in my mind that I just can't envisage it happening. Even when they talk about it. Doesn't matter how much detail they use, the them-ness of the sex-having-them (sometimes I wish I spoke German) simply isn't there. It's just a description of sex, distinct from the person involved.

This is weird, I know, but what can you do.

Anyway, I noticed again this evening the separation of these two and it got me thinking. As you'd be aware, I'm constantly on the look-out for a girlfriend. You know how it is, you desperately seek the love of your life, blaming Hugh Grant for your unrealistic expectations. But that, I now realise, doesn't have to be mutually exclusive with a friends-with-benefits arrangement.

I have always been, I think it's safe to say, fairly conservative when it comes to sex. I've always been accepting of sex-for-the-sake-of-sex with others, I've been a strident defender of the legitimacy of female sexual desire, I've even advised in favour of these arrangements. Of course, I've never been comfortable with them for myself. Tonight I realised: there's no reason for that. The relationship of two consenting adults is their business. If they want to carry on a sexual relationship without worrying about love, that's their business.

I think this arose from my old standard, I'm not interested in sex. People don't believe it when I say it but it's true. However, I now realise that even though I'm not interested, I would be open to the idea. Also, maybe I'm a little bit interested in a friends-with-benefits arrangement, primarily as an educational tool. I lack quite as much experience as others I know so it'd be great to bone up (deliberate and terrible, yes to both) on it a bit. That's not going to preclude my search for my One True Partner.

Insanity. Next thing you know I'll be going to strip clubs.

I think I may actually have thought (and blogged) a similar sentiment before. Hmmm.

gilmore girls on a saturday night

I love this episode of Gilmore Girls. The one where they have the CSPAN-broadcast speech (I refer to it as the debate episode in reference to the west wing episode).

Here be spoilers.

When Paris cracks... some days that's just what I want to do. Frequently, in fact. Scream to the world "fuck you, I don't deserve this!" I've said this before... somewhere else in my blog. A year or more ago. More, definitely. It's magnificent. Sometimes that's just what needs to be said.

Not expressing myself well tonight. But seriously, sometimes it's hard to believe this isn't just some cosmic joke.

comedy

Can I just mention how funny it is that this blog is subtitled "just another sterradian in the blogosphere"? That's really a great joke.

Better even than how I'm ordering pizza as Geoff Kennett.

my day

My day today was just a sequence of unhappy.

I woke up too early.

I took a shower and had a bit of a cry about my dead dad.

I got on the early bus to work. It was crowded so I had to stand up the whole way.

I was in town early enough to have breakfast. I spilt bbq sauce down my (beige) trousers and the food was rubbish anyway - undercooked frozen scrambled egg. Still frozen in parts.

I got to work and budgets are on the agenda, again. Yay budgets. Two hours later we've redone what I did originally but this time with the data rearranged in a way that prohibits the use of metadata and limits our capacity to easily modify variables or presentation. And so what? It's all going to be printed anyway and any changes tasked to me.

Of course we'll then have to go through it in detail because preparing budgets is above my pay grade. Despite that my boss knowns nothing about the budget and I know it all. That I get asked about my collegue's pay rates. Good thing I know how to do a payroll enquiry through the finance system. Don't worry, it's not a breach of privacy. I can only find out the salaries of people in my unit.

Speaking of pay grade, that level we discussed? Think lower. And the position is still subject to confirmation. And that training we discussed? I don't know if we can provide it. The assumption is I'm fine though, because doing things I know nothing about is my specialty.

I tried to corrall some debating teams today, did all bar one. The only comment is that I should also call the other one.

And the other staff have heard my call for fixing our financial management system! They're going to make one up, without consulting me. The system I have in mind and have been talking about for a year probably isn't worth considering anyway.

I also was thanked for flowers I contributed too. Would've been less awkward if I knew we were buying flowers for my boss' wife because her mum died. I was in the mood to hear about sitting with the body until the ambulance arrived though, so that's good.

I think I may have missed the phone call about my failure to push a third party hard enough to get something done, despite I was assured it'd be done monday. Third party blames me too though so I guess I'm just a failure.

The call came to my mobile in the middle of an informal meeting with my boss. I ignored it the first two times but took it, with permission, the third. "It's ok to do that when it's just us but your phone did vibrate yesterday during our Important Meeting so leave it at your desk next time". Thanks for that, it wasn't belittling at all.

At about five o'clock I had enough so I took my dad's death certificate (which had been hanging around my office) and left. I got as far as the park across the road before sitting down, taking off my glasses and doing a very good job of not crying. I researched usb relays instead.

After that all I got told I was clearly in no state to do anything useful and should go home. (I know that's not what you said but that's how I'm going to tell it because that's how it made me feel. My sociopathy is failing me).

I got on the bus, didn't sit next to the pretty girl, and now I'm at the park near my house creepily watching kids and every now and then checking that my dad's death certificate is still there. It is.

i feel like that guy in the end of spaceballs. "oh no, not again"

I'm no good with people. This morning I struggled with mod_rewrite. Maybe I can join a cult and live in silent piousness forever?

insanity is setting in

Tonight my head feels smaller than my hands. I feel small. And I feel like no matter how much I want it not to be, life will involve nothing but settling for that which I can tolerate.

Maybe not. Maybe I'll find purpose in kids or something. There's only so much good to reproduction though.

debaclé

I was meant to go out this afternoon to a picnic. I had been wavering but had said emphatically yesterday (when invited) that I would go. Today I wavered. Then I informed the inviter I wouldn't go. The inviter got angry, I said I would go but would be late. I was told I was a cunt and unwanted.

I had managed to do fairly well at not pissing off the inviter in the past. Now that I have I fear a grudge will be held; 'tis their style.

But you know what? I didn't do it to piss them off. I didn't do it because I don't like them. I did it because I am not in a fit state to go out. I did it because I don't want to leave the house today. And I didn't think it was that important. When I was informed it was important I said I would go because had I known that I would've. Were this a party organised long in advance, an awards ceremony, a wedding -- something obviously key -- I would've participated. This was a picnic in a friend's back garden organised last night because it looked to be a nice day today. Reneging at the last minute is not a nice thing to do but it's not unforgivable.

I have a feeling I won't be forgiven. I have a feeling I hurt the inviter and that hurts me. It wasn't my intention -- though what is it they say about the road to hell?

Fuck.

sexual inadequacy

With skills like that I should write headlines for the Hun.

Here's the thing. I don't think of sex as real. I can't think of any other way to describe it. I get the impression that people imagine themselves having sex with others on a fairy regular basis. I don't. I don't have a visual imagination at all, which makes it interesting. I also don't picture others having sex. So the idea of people I know having sex seems... well, absurd. Because I haven't seen it.

I know, this is crazy, but earlier this evening people were talking about sex and it weirded me out. They're friends of mine and my friends don't have sex (solipsism-much?). It freaked me out a bit. It was weird.

It's not that I have a problem with sex, nor am I embarrassed by sex... I just... don't think about it and so can't discuss it. And the idea of people I know even having sex organs is foreign to me.

And yes, I know intellectually they have sex organs and sex and for a couple I know precisely their level of depravity... but that's not the same as emotionally knowing they have sex. There's a disconnect. Because all the sex they have is... it's fake, to my mind. In the same way Africa is fake because I've never been there - because I haven't had sex with them it's fake. (Actually, my own sexual experiences tend to take on a surreal nature in memory, so perhaps this is some deep-seated psychological issue).

Anyway, point is I can't talk about sex because it's fake and that makes me feel inadequate.

Also I have a floppy penis. (For clarity: that is a joke)

fascinating

I haven't read over my post of fourteen hours ago but I was thinking about deleting it. Of course, I don't do that.

That was the worst of it though. I vented. I watched weeds and read slashdot until 6am. I slept until 2pm. And now... well, now I'm happy again. Seven hours behind schedule in terms of work, but I can handle that. I'm happy :).

sad times

Hi, people who still remember this exists. I think I can count that number on one finger, zero-indexed. Or perhaps using Byzantine counting - they would use the thumb to indicate one of three positions on each other finger, thus counting to twelve on each hand.

It's five past fucking three in the morning and that's the best I've got. Grand final day today. I didn't even know who was playing until I overheard a discussion Thursday night. I only know who won because #afl was a trending topic on twitter. I was invited to a grand final party and even was marked as "attending" on facebook -- but I had work to do. Behold, the fruits of my labour: http://rosabercrombie.com. For a wordpress theme and some uploads it sure as shit took long enough. I got the brief in May. Final copy in July. It's now the end of September, four weeks after "just a couple of tweaks" were sent through. I tried to outsource, twice, but other people are smarter than me and know how to say know. You know that's even on my fucking performance review? "Michael needs to learn how to say NO!" - literally. Direct quote. Capitals and exclamation mark and everything. My boss thinks I'm fucking five. It's kind of a problem I'm used to though. "And Michael because you're young, just in age..." We call that institutionalised discrimination. But I've given up caring.

You know what I like about twitter? The anonymity. People like @mspiratesocks who I started following after we agreed about something #qanda related and now she gets excited about me crushing on work crush. What's sad is how much I have to embellish life even for twitter. But the anonymity is nice. Knowing my mum and colleagues and the vast majority of my friends will never read my 140 character comments about life. It's great technology but it hurts my attention span.

So, 3.13 and I still haven't gotten around to why I'm anxty enough to write a blog. Well, I'm off my meds. Let's rewind a bit. I've been off meds for a while. Then my father died and shit got well fucked up and our family doctor refused to see us because of the controversy surrounding that and I missed four days of work for sick leave without a doctors certificate so I went to the doctor just down the road from me and got meds. Which were great at improving my mood but fucking suck otherwise. I didn't think negatively at all. But I could hardly think. My mind would work at a third its usual speed; I couldn't wake up in the morning; I had no motivation; I didn't CARE about anything; I couldn't even write a single line of code (hence delays in websites). So after six? weeks I made the executive decision to take myself off my medication (fuck the doctor who said I had to be on it at least six months; fuck him and the office where they won't give me an appointment in the week I call; fuck them and their policy of not issuing retrospective doctors certificates even when the illness is on file but when I didn't see them that day. Let me get this straight: I have to wait a week to see them; I have an illness which manifests in not leaving my bed for days at a time with an irrational fear of communicating with people -- but they can't possibly certify that unless they see me on the day. Well, walk up the fucking hill and say hi then, hey?)

So anyway, I know it's a bad idea from a Michael-not-feeling-sad perspective but I've given up on that. It's been much, much better from a Michael-doing-shit-that-needs-to-get-done perspective. I'm still behind but I'm much closer to catching up.

Of course the flip side is it's 3.21 and I'm crying for no apparent reason. That's not true. There is a clear reason, I'm just too embarrassed even for this forum. I'm twenty two years old and need to get the fuck over myself. The whole "nobody understands me (except possibly morrisey)" thing was ALWAYS a joke and is meant to be a joke about emo ironic seventeen year olds. It's not meant to be my lament at twenty two (TWENTY FUCKING TWO) years old.

You know Nikky is engaged. She's engaged and I haven't had sex in (censored). How the fuck did she get the better half of that deal. It's her birthday today. Happy birthday Nikky. I don't hate you, I'm just bitter and jealous. I can think of no better present; you always wanted me to be bitter.

So, grand final day, apparently a big deal. I missed it, as expected, and I don't mind. I did get one message telling me I should be at the party I piked on, and I appreciate that at least. But this evening I came home and watched shit on TV (well, actually, there was a rather nice French film with Audrey Tautou in a different role to the one she normally plays but it really pissed me off because life isn't like that. Life is like the first bit of the movie, where she gets fired for being compassionate and has to leave her house early because her room-mate has a date and her mother doesn't really want her home for the weekend and there are weirdos on the train and it's shit and you fall in the rain and break your nose and have to go to hospital... life is like that. Life isn't that it's all been leading up to meeting your one true love because it's the full moon and venus is ascending [I'm pretty sure astrologers doon't even give a shit about the phase of the moon but what the fuck do I know about astrology]. There was a nice scene with a taxi driver actually, telling three stories from his life. One about the broken clothes peg that made his underwear fall off the line and onto the balcony of a neighboring apartment, in which he met his future wife. One about the time he ate a kiwi fruit, had an allergic reaction so couldn't go out to the motorcross race with his son the next day. His son was killed in an accident, his wife maimed. His wife left him after that and he gave up. So he took a huge cocktail of painkillers and anti-depressants which he knew would kill him. With all these pills in his mouth he went to the sink -- and due to a broken gasket they'd turned off the water. He struggled to find SOMETHING and all that there was was a bottle of cooking oil. So he drank that, washed down the pills and threw up the whole lot. So now he drives a taxi.)

I think I got distracted. The point was I only got contacted twice this evening: once because Lily wanted her hard drive back and once because Tess couldn't figure out how to use her TV. She figured it out before I could send instructions. And then twitter's trending topics go to #iamsinglebecause. Fuck you twitter, fuck you.

I'm angry and alone and anxty and terribly, terribly depressed. Not in a don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed way, more in an anxty and alone and angry and sad way. Just so much is so sad. I refuse to even think about things that really are sad. I don't know what I could do about them. I think I'll go for a walk. Sure it's three in the morning in sandy bay and it's raining and there's nowhere conceivable for me to go and I've been putting off getting a glass of water for the last hour because it's too far away... but you never know, I might. I'm not going for a walk, who am I kidding. I'm getting a glass of water then I'm coming back to bed to sleep.

Sorry Clara. I know this isn't what you were hoping would pop up in your feed,

I want to watch more movies. 80s movies. Juno. Sweeny Todd. Whatever. I want also to be liked. Mostly I just want to be left alone for about a week, maybe two. No responsibilities, nothing to do, nothing to worry about. Just to be for a little while. A holiday, I think they call that.

Yes, really. Still.

I know, I should blog, but the things on my mind aren't things I can write about. Work: I have a fiduciary duty not to bitch about certain things. Other work: I'm meant to be doing that, not bitching about how I lost my fucking usb with the perfect database design on it. (Talk about fucking annoying. There is no way I can come up with the same quality again. Ok there is, but I don't want to ... I've already done it twice). And then there's the elephant: my dad. That I definitely can't talk about for a whole host of reasons.

I'm sorry I can't provide the entertainment I used to. You never know, that day might return.

undefunctification

This blog is apparently defunct. In order to undefunctify it, I present the first in my at-least-one part series: Guest Blogs. This evening's blog was written by one of the Watergate burglars. Or maybe that gay librarian from QC. You decide.

As an aside, I'd like to just mention how pleased I am to be a Publisher. There is a certain power in it, a kind of sense of responsibility to journalistic integrity coupled with a knowledge of the power to make false attributions. To influence thought by promulgating the thoughts of others. It's exciting. -ed.

I have been considering various topics of bloggage since mjec so graciously extended the offer. I thought I should write about sex. Why not take the opportunity to drastically and embarrassingly over share, right? Surely the polite thing to do. I had various headings in mind "Can you enjoy doggy style and still be a feminist?" was an early contender. I wasn't really sure about what to say apart from YES! And that seemed just a little brief, and I hate the phrase "doggy style". I think someone just needs to re-brand the position with a more appealing name really... [hitting it with a lower case h? -ed.] Anyway, I'm sure that I must be the first person in their early twenties to decide that sex is really quite fun.[1]

It is though isn't it? These days I find myself remembering this at the oddest moments, on public transport I suddenly remember that horribly/deliciously dirty (in a kind of clichéd way) thing you said when you had your fingers THERE and just THAT look on your face and your voice was hoarse and... oh. Much more concerning is the thought at the family dinner table, just after my mother passed me the potatoes.[2] I think of the way sex used to make you sweat, raking my fingers through your slightly damp head of hair as your fingers grabbed at the sheets. My mother must have some kind of psychic abilities, because just then she asks about you, or something that refers to you. But if you want to read about that kind of stuff you can read Fear of Flying which is much better written.

I fleetingly considered writing about the horrible disillusion that comes from realizing that I am fast reaching the age of being a grown up. Terrifying. I refuse to be responsible. I have options - apparently education can't stretch on forever into the distance. On a tangentially related topic, whatever happened to us? You know, you and me. Sitting on the back seat of the bus telling each other everything. Writing lists of the people we like in our class, swapping food - my muesli bar for your roll up. And what about you? We used to talk late into the night, I liked you so much I almost forgot amongst the strange joy of being the first to know all those secrets. You were sweet and clever.[3] What about you? Who actually physically held me together when I cried my homesickness out, you read French novels in our sun soaked apartment and developed a liking for vegemite. I used to borrow your clothes.

The answers are disturbingly simple of course. You and I no longer live on the same bus route. You like the ones with the strange piercings and I like the ones with the glasses. Perhaps you weren't so clever or so sweet. And now neither of us really have the time to stay up late talking about pointless shit. Maybe all we have in common are 4 months under the sun, learning how to eat noodle soup with chopsticks and the proportions of rice wine to coke which make it almost bearable. Don’t worry, at least we still have Facebook.[4]

The same goes for the other, I never remember feeling comfortable being a teenager (perhaps just before my 20th birthday). This doesn't bode well for my poor, possible-future children (will I EVER adjust to that?).

You know in the interests of keeping this under nanowrimo length I should probably stop here. Except to say: go out and fuck someone hot tonight. [I'm not sure I will ever do this and that makes me sad -ed.] If this isn't an option/desirable I would suggest downloading Page France - We Remain as Two, drinking a few glasses of wine and really obsessing over past loves and kindred spirits. You'll regret it but it'll be nice and poetic.

[1] Although apparently some disagree... why?
[2] Ok, major telepathic play list moment. Just as I was tying this the song Dirty Girl by the Eels started playing (the opening lines are "I love a girl with a dirty mouth" - don’t we all? [Yes. Yes we do. -ed.]).
[3] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7B7bVD_DkM4&feature=related
[4] Look, this is a good final line. I’m not as cynical as it implies though. I am glad we still have Facebook.

10h 5m 31s

It's been a while since I've put anything up here. More than a year, in fact. I have been reading over my old stuff and it's good. I'm glad I have it. I'm also glad of my black books. I'm not so glad of my book Principles of Corporations Law.

That's a lie. I love having the book. I love the ability to know. I hate the essay. The problem is that I know this essay won't be any good. It can't be. I don't have time to make it good. It's due in 10h 3m 43s. I can't research and write an essay in that time - which is what I'd need to do. Of course, while my preference is never to hand in anything less than my best work (ha!) if I don't get something in by the due time I'll get zero. That will cause me to fail law.

Welcome back.

missing out

I have never been in a relationship so serious that the end of it has caused me to wallow for days in tearful self-pity.

I don't think I've ever even liked anyone that much. Or perhaps I have and I just haven't ever had a sufficiently focused rejection time to warrant all that wallowing at one time.

There are times when I wallow in self-pity for days on end, or at least for a day and a half or so. Curiously they are more often than not about how I don't have anyone to wallow over. Perhaps there is a human (or Michaelean) need to wallow some amount each year and I just fulfil it however I can.

I wish that I had such a person.