Forlorn, forlorn
Like a homeless person.
Most people have plenty.
I'm the one that's poor,
a fool right through.

Ignorant, ignorant.
Most people are so bright.
I'm the one that's dull.
Most people are so keen.
I don't have the answers.

Everybody has something to do.
I'm the clumsy one, out of place.
I'm the different one,
for my food
is the milk of the mother.

Book of Virtue, Chapter 20

For a while I was happy. Then this week I was not. US History and Literature are probably the culprit again. I didn't do my reading for Literature, so I failed the pop quiz. I didn't even look at spark notes. Today I at least looked at spark notes, but I'm going to have to read the book before my literary essay is due. Good news is the teacher'll let me rewrite my last literary essay. I liked that book better, but the current one is ok I guess.

My US History semester paper is floundering. But the main problem is that my teacher thinks I don't care. I have that vague blank look on my face only to keep myself from "releasing my emotions," as that wouldn't be a pretty sight. The last deadline I handed in a piece of crap, and she is visibly angry about that. And that I can't take. As I'm a very pitiful person, one that must always be loved by everyone. Thus is my goal in life it seems, to make others happy. I can't deal with people angry with me, I don't know how to.

Yesterday I was angry, and that filled up the emptyness for a while. But that passed when my classmate forgave me. I have so much courseload to do. And I took a 4 hour nap today.

The I'm most saddened by a new development just today. I used to be proud of being able to sing C2 ambitus. But that was only in the 10-15 minutes after waking up, and only ambitus and very quietly, and always a little bit sharp, maybe C1/2#2. Normally I can only sing C#2 or D2 ambitus. And tessitura I only have E2. Then I find out today that this one short kid in my chorus can sing B1 tessitura, at all times. That sonofabitch can sing B1. I must practice every morning in an attempt to increase my lower range, and that SOB has it naturally. And it leads me to believe that several other members of my section also have C2 or B1 or even Bb1. But I'm afraid to ask because they're all older than me (except for this one guy I'm talking about). I'm still a better singer than him, mainly because I have upper range, but not enough to even be a baritone, but still more than him. God dammit! I don't even know if I should continue working on it, and just let my C# and D just go away (I naturally/originally have only D#2)

Oh, and then the chorus leader told me I was messing up my section by coming in wrong, so I shouldn't sing in the entrances as we're too close to the performance to fix anything.


May these things be forgotten.

But more importantly, I have no will when it comes to work. That is why I'm failing all my classes.

I could never understand people who get bored (pretty much everyone). With me, I'm never board; there's always something to occupy me. This starts working against me, as I can always find something better to do than my work.

I'm always late to class, and I never do my Vergil. But I've been late to everything since the beginning. So have I never been able to do my work, spending countless hours wallowing in self pity or googling suicide and random stuff like the death penalty.

How can I change? I want to change, but I don't know how. Everyone is there to help me, but I will not see them. Instead I stand alone, proud, but already fallen. How can I profess to follow the Way, when I cannot even see tomorrow?

I have no will.

When I get depressed, I invariably must release myself. I've tried all sorts of things to summon the will to resist this urge, but so far have been unsuccessful.

My friend which rejected my invitation is honest. She will not lie to you to make you feel better. She also despises modesty, which she regards as false in all its forms, even when it is not. So as a result, more often then not, she makes me depressed.

So when she tells me I'm a horrible singer, I believe her. When she tells me I'm ugly, I believe her. When she tells me I'm stupid and bad in everything, I believe her.

How could I get a 2.3 in my Calc I/II course? I have always gotten 4.3 in mathematics, and I deserved one here too. But I was late for class and missed two quizzes, which landed me two zeros. This reaked havok on my grade-point. And the 100s on all the tests don't matter.

And I got a 2.7 in my Vergil course. I really love Latin, but I couldn't keep up with the workload, and so I never spoke in class and bombed all the tests. The teacher is visibly dissappointed in me.

In fact, everyone is dissappointed in me.

Friends are suppposed to be there for you, to hear you just talk about your woes. The people I thought were friends wouldn't here me, so I must not really have any. So I must write to forget.

I never hate other people. I only hate myself.

Last year I developed a system to grade masculinity and attractiveness. I call it the A-index. Whenever I see another man, I quickly apply the grading system. If he comes out higher than me, I immediatly go into a depression and then go home and release myself to make myself feel better.

But I really hate the following physical qualities (lets not even go to the deeper stuff for now):
my chin, it does not jut the way it should, but instead receeds backwards
my jaw, is not square or wide at all (two separate tests on the A-index)
my forhead, which juts out
my SHR (shoulder hip ratio), not only are my shoulders narrow, but my hips wide
my height, which is above average, but every day I wish was 6-2, at least 6-even

Ironically, I'm usually satisfied with my size of seven inches.

In class the worse insult is "you have no friends!" But people there are too nice to use it when it's true. They are all afraid to tell me that I have no friends, even though I may be the only one there for which it is true.

Why am I so messed up? Why am I always alone, always so sad?

Even if they start out good, my relationships always quickly decay. Sometimes I feel so good about myself, but soon enough it all turns to naught.

At first my Literature Professor thought I was a genius. He told me I really was good at this English thing. But then I fell ill, missed a paper, and never spoke in class again. At first he thought I was just sick, and told me to get better as I was the star of the class. But I never got better, even after the sickness. Eventually he realized that I was never a genius. Instead he thinks I'm a complete idiot.

I remember once my old friend called me and asked if I liked her. I was stupid and thought she liked me, so I said I liked her. She then proceeded to tell me she didn't actually like me. Even though I did not like her, I still fell into a deep (suicidal) depression for a few months. How do I know I'm not in denial over liking her? Because I suspect I'm not into girls at all. This was over two years ago.

More recently I asked another old friend (I have two close friends of three years) out to Semi-formal. She tried to work around saying no, saying that she didn't think of me like that, that she had to think about it. I am only happy to say that for a moment she did consider it, because she did another careful apprasial of my face. But she came to the same conclusion, that guy is way too ugly to go out with. We now pretend it never happened. In fact, we've convinced ourself of that.

I'm really such a loser, no wonder no one likes me. This one girl had a crush on me for a couple years. We went out once, but I was too afraid to kiss her. Now she doesn't like me anymore, and I'm just left here standing.

But I'm not depressed anymore, not compared to two years ago. Then I was suicidal, but not anymore.

scribo ut destituam.
I write so that I may forsake.

I try to follow the Path, but I cannot let go of the things I carry. My hope is that in writing I may give up these things.

So this blog is for things that I would never write on my normal blog, the one my friends read, hurtful things that can never be read. But I write them, and I write them only so that I may forsake.

We all have things we carry. I write these things so that I can let go, so that I can forget.

I never talk about people behind their backs. This may be my only virtue, but I fear my reasons are less that virtuous. Regardless, I cannot even think unkindly about other people, not even at home.

I never acknowledge these thoughts. Thus I can never forsake them. But my writings here will take them away for me. The truth will take them away. And never will I intend on being mean.