Goddamn it! Well, contrary to my edict, for all x, Possibilityofsocialization(x) -> Ido(x), there exists an x such that Possibilityofsocialization(x) and ¬ Ido(x). Fuck. The possibility was a night out with my roommates. Not much, but a start. Now I do have real money angsties. But there was revealed in my up to now veneer of sociability the true, rancid grieving heart that weeps within me. And now i'm stressed, and sleeplessness looms, and inadeaquatio mei ad vitam (again, i write wrong in old tongues). Fuck, fuck, fuck. Know that scene in the wire, wherein all that's uttered is fuck; such is my mind now.
Secondly goddamn. I need to learn to initiate conversations. Really; two occasions there were. Without initiations one doesn't even have anywhere to begin. Ah. The relief of release: blogging like an opiate to the veins pacifies.
Is this life? Cf. the summer. There were no such pains. But, there were no such hopes. BUT I NEED TO STOP TURNING AWAY FROM WHAT CAN BE.
Wait: to what extent is my weh a function of percieved changes in the image of me held by others? i.e. the adaequatio merum ( I know there is no gen. plural btw. If ad doesn't take acc i'm well and truly screwed ofc) ad me i.e. the fact that the many adumbrations of myself that are seen will, as their number tends to infinity, settle down on the image of my aforementioned true, rancid grieving heart. For what is to be if not to hide? On that portentous note I end.