In filestube, somebody googled (filetubed) kyrie eleison. I like to think it was the despairful cry of someone with no-one else to whom to turn, and not just someone looking for christmas music.

I am lonely. Lone-leeeeeeeeee. The word glides off the tongue when it should stick like a cock in the wheels of a bike. The three words, those three words of the English language; fuck the others for whom other three words are the pertinent ones, fuck them in their stinking asses. These are the three, threnodic, galling, abalienating, their to-be-spokenness exuding, an essential property, one I possess in every possible world.

Lonely; and never not lonely. And a disastrous attempt not to be; hope at start of year in PH, whom my lack of preference for whom chased away, from that yclept MC, founder of this blog, who never liked me. But not that: that no one's. Ever liked me. Nor, perhaps, ever will. Possibilities there are not. Just the gut shot of a persevering loneliness, et nunc, et in perpetuum. And would not a graceful God just simply be buggered looking down, at the meal for one industry?

לֹא-טוֹב הֱיוֹת הָאָדָם לְבַדּוֹ

the ipsissima verba.

Can GOD exist, and I alone? Is it possible that I can be so fucking twattish? Can GOD exist, tho life exists? But still: I need to hope, to God, to eutuche, to karma, to the weltgeist, I need to hope to. Give me a chance, send something my way and I won't make you disappointed again. Sad.

Ah life, you shitty fucking cunt. No, that both oversells and overanthropomorphicizes that hallowed l word. But yeah, the year's over. I remember - I thought I wrote it here - that I thought that year was going to be my year. It hasn't been. That's sad, isn't it? Luckily I'm not too depressed about it, but it's sad. I just feel: why me? Why eternally cut off? I try to be a good person. I tried to improve myself, physically, mentally. But the cause of this was an illusion, an illusion after whom i still pine. A fine year, I guess, not in general completely fucking depressed, but no progress, and a painful rejection. It's not like this for other people etc. etc.

Been sleeping well thanks to pills, at least. FUCK IT. There's next year. That verdant cunt hope bleeds eternal.

pathemata mathemata. Just revealed to my best friend my traumata, namely alcoholism. Bit of a disburdening, but still, to reveal that shit is shitty. Also, just went to a bar, wherein MC was, drinking, it was awkward, I only went because of the aforementioned best friend didn't want to go alone. The feeling that I just can't fucking banter irritates, being drinkless. I shouldn't have gone, it's just depressing. But I think the plus side is that i'm pretty fucking over her, tho that may've been because she was so evidently not under me. Thus, pain. But: I decided to go, to leap, and hopefully God's purpose was that I do that, to get finally over me. Because in vino veritas, and was revealed in her cups not one jot, nor an iota of feeling for me. So thanks be to God for that disambiguation! And let's hope, as we go forward, that it remains so, that my feelings be dead to her, and I can move on, if not this year, then the next, and that I can jubeln dem hochste Gott. I do feel perhaps, that this was his purpose. And hopefully my feelings herein expressed do accurately express my feelings.

OK, I'm in. 14\11\10, I profess in full earnestness to follow Jesus Christ. The earnestness of my earnestness jars, but it's needed

That means pistis, elpis, agape. God must exist; suffering is too unnatural, real suffering. It is calm but, and well slept I write this. Let all the critical concerns, at least at present, fall away. Jump in. I am under no illusions; things won't become great. But I need something, mankind needs something. Something is offered, many reliable witnesses inform us of this, and taken, and fucking works. So from now on, it's elpis, it's pistis, it's agape. It's seeing through the suicidal despair, the despair of Abraham, the peculiar psychological state, and having faith that there's an auditor; it's, tho i've been doing this more and more anyway, it's putting myself second, because it's what we're told to do and it's good. Yes, yes. There are no pleurs de joie, no wind battered dark windows, no hunched french bloke in paroxyms. There's sun, and mild anxiety and the fatigue of a flu, but nevertheless a decision properly made.

Well, I did it. And no. Have been putting off this. I don't want to pore over the details, but a poor night's sleep has made the hurt come back, the deep, deep hurt that arises from the fact that i've never been happy, in the wide sense, that i've never known people, and that there's no reason to believe i ever will. I continue to try on the dating site, to no avail. Why me? Why born into such a family, why lumbered with such shyness? Why always alone and often lonely? Why me?

NO! BY NO MEANS. ME GENOITO. BY NO MEANS; LET IT NOT BE. And like but the thing you have to realize is that my peers are not like me, they don't know the haranging, dismal woe, the howling fantods. But is this not another Why me another drink? That I'm like fucking special, insignis dolore. And you just need to fucking ----- ABIDE, abide in the pain of this 2 o clock afternoon, with the hangover feeling without the pleasure of drinking from sleeping ill, the short sharp shocks of the rejections, of the neverness. Yes! I may be illstarred, I may continue to push against the cages miserable, as if dead, that is cut off in perpetuum from all human contact, but fuck it? Is that the best you can do, universe? No; the universe doesn't care, it's cooly indifferent. Praying, even if there is a God, will not make things improve. Or will it? Do I just need to hold on? I need, right this very moment, to submit, submit to what my life was, is, and will be. MY life. But also like no; If I feel this way about others, that they are wellstarred, I need to say it here. Or do I? And but like the point is that this this, this very moment, this pain, this is mine, this is what i've got, PCDN, by the inexorable workings of the atoms, and the regularities that breed, from shy alcoholic offspring shy alcoholic sons. BUT THIS IS ME. And the fucking GLORY of the human spirit is that it can't go on but does, so, contrary to hypothesis, it CAN. But is this glory or rather the very fucking definition of hell? To be, as Simone Weil'd have it, afflicted, dirempted from God and man, purely alone and suffering, with no admixture of relief now or in the future forseeable ( tho of course it can and may come). To have the heart in you thump in pain, the heart banging Bang of Leben. The stomach in you churn, witnessing the others, whose flesh we can touch, at an - and I don't like to over- and wrongly- use this word, but - infinite distance. Jest. esti. est. (wherein is represented those languages like me, without copulation). I need to get in contact with fellow sufferers, post haste. But I need to accept it. I can take this afternoon's pain, I can abide in it.

My heart is pounding. For I have decided that tomorrow I am going to tell MC how I feel. My hands are shaking...Well, having known that she was going to be in the library this evening, I just went to return a book, hoping to find her and unburden myself. I didn't find her, but my heart is beating less frantically now. Please, please, let me have the opportunity to say my piece tomorrow. I am of course confident that things will turn out for the worst; she will have a boyfriend, or not see me that way or..., tho I do think it's possible that she certainly did see me that way, in the past. And then I'm going home thurs, so I can dust myself off and return, and return to PH, or perhaps this internet girl, and I can finally, finally be over her. Tho on the negative side, I will finally be over her. It's just like going to the dentist, really, or at least making the appointment. I didn't know what the outcome would be, but I had to do it. It's just with my track record, of not being liked, never no-one in perpetuum. And things'll be soured with someone whom I do really like being around.

But come on, there's evidence. But I fear it could ALL be interpreted as just friendliness; but surely in the past it was something more. So then something would have changed. But it seems that nothing has, in fact, changed. There's touchyfeeliness aplenty. Today I told her my dream, that I dreamt last night, that we were a couple. And she didn't react negatively.

But this is certainly, certainly the rational thing to do. I just have to man up, and, like the dentist, take the pain, in order to be free for the future.

The more I think on it, the more I am certain that it is just friendliness. Her pupils do look pretty big in my company tho. Fuck it, all these thoughts are to no end whatsoever. It's to be done. God, help me to do it.

Ah man, history is repeating itself. She shows interest, I misinterpret, I make a move, she rejects it. Messaged her re a meet up 2.5 hrs ago; no reply, and when it comes, I doubt it'll be positive. But why does she so overtly seem to flirt with me, only to be cool the next day? I guess I really just need to say no, no longer, I don't want to be caught in the anguish causing games of the end of last year. To give her up. And indeed, logic suggests that if the heart doesn't. But I just like her presence so much. And, well, horrendum dictu, I've taken to drinking alcohol again. May this cup, quite literally, pass from me. I feel incredibly far from God, marred in vice, and a God in whom I barely believe to boot. What is the substance of this 10.30 friday, alone, when messages sent to 2 girls remain unreplied? It occurs that it's halloween, that everyone's everywhere, that I am nowhere. They - MC and PH - may be somewhere. I play scrabble online, mulling, kicking and snorting like a disgruntled mule, heavy with the sound of laughter without.And another can goes down, and it's just so _easy_ to do; it is literally, knocked back, 30 seconds. 3 x 30 seconds and you've got a drunk on, if you're me, and a bad tomorrow on, also. And there's no - well, the first time there were scruples, there was going in and out of the kitchen, picking up and putting down the can. But this - the third time - there is nothing. It is automatic. I stand in the dark kitchen - below my window there seems to be a couple embracing under lights, so I don't turn on my light, lest they look in - fizz the can open and drink deep, as twere my life depended thereon.(And still no message). Then tomorrow'll bring, like today did, the utter shock of the hangover, the sick tired empty anxious low feeling, with which I lived literally eveyday for years. Imagine, dear reader, a good night's sleep. Now imagine not having one for literally years. Imagine that for a life. And yet I return. And so groundless, just, like everest, because it's there. Because I can, and can get away with it. Imagine 6 years of lucidity, for a person hating lucidity. Does it feel like I'm home? This is truly the Hauptfrage.(And still no message). No, I just feel a bit bleary and irritated. I mean, why not just simply reply? An excuse is all that's needed. Fuck it, I need to ask her, just like, wtf? Why be all nice and then not? Surely she realizes that I'm someone who can't take rejection? And yet she rejects, then unrejects.
This blog post has taught us two things: that I shouldn't blog when ineb'd, since I seem to channel a 15 year old twat, and that life is a fearful misery.

Oh life, oh life. Well, it appears that MC and me are back. I don't know what the hell the story is with her guy, but it seems that we are back. She's back to her flirtatious self; I took a look at her pupils, and them suckas were dilated to buggery looking at me, tho the room was dark. And there is another variable, which perhaps needs revealed, but, paranoid that I am that anyone, tho it is impossible, given the info i've revealed, unless you already knew me very well indeed, should recognise from these unread writing who I am; this variable could be altering things. But I don't think it is. Moreover, at present I am somewhat impaired. I know what this means, but again I'm scared to reveal it in foro externo lest whatever. I need to think of something to do re MC; it is now perhaps fitting for me truly and earnestly to make a move. Could this year sneak up and become mine? Ascertain whether there's a bloke, tho the question pains, and move from there.

Well, I need to cease being such a neurotic. I think I'm getting towards letting go of MC and holding on to PH. I am coming to like her more; the weekend we had lunch together and watched a movie, a shit movie. The problem is my deep lack of self-confidence, so that if I don't receive a token of esteem each day I feel as if she is slipping from me. I am very insecure, unfortunately. And so, tonight, I feel the wings of mild despair pass over me, and for no good reason. To an extent it's I who does all the pursuing, which irritates. Moreover, I guess I should have made a move, but how does one do such things? No fucking clue. Also, I haven't revealed any of my dark secrets to her. Which I will need to. But at least I seem to be moving on from MC. Should I perhaps reveal myself to her? I.e. Polyhymnia. I think we're somewhat in an awkward stage. One issue is that I like to text, to be in contact often, and I think she doesn't. I initiate all textual exchanges. Anyway: there is NO reason to feel bad, on my part, this monday evening, all things considered. It is, I guess, tho it still paineth to say, for the best that MC and I muss ( subject here, the relationship) nicht sein. Thank you, Lord God; although whether this isn't the 'thank you' of the professional athlete, I don't know.

Ah life, thou piece of shit. Or rather, Ah me, thou piece of shit. Just unhappy, again. Nothing will happen with MC; let's just face it, she is with another. My other girl is ok, but nothing more. I am just shit at living, and would gladly not do so. But will continue, just mediocre, mediocre, mediocre. Can't wait for this year to be over, then hopefully I can fuck off elsewhere, have a new start, at which point i'll actually be able to make friends. A whole year spent unhappy pursuing mc, whom i like so much. And then nothing, there be's someone else. I get rejected again. atopos ge esti. I am super smart, super good looking, and nothing. No confidence. Oh to be dead! Obviously this is silly. Jesu soll meine Freude bleiben. Hat er aber immer ( ever?) meine Freude gewesen? Lebt er? Should he do, then all is fine, all is dandy. But should he don't, then what? Live miserable for ever? My fond hopes that this had been my year depart. Nothing, no hope, no place nowhere, never into eternity. PCDN. Only the fond fantasies; the defenestration thoughts in the dark scurl of my ever empty bed. The walking alone, the re-ly taken up smoking and fantasising habits, in the dark of a peopled city, with the sussurous 'fuck you' of the anxious belly. The desperate empty hours.
Fuck it; was ist zu getan werden? One must look onwards and upwards.

Oh me, oh my. You answered that one quickly God! MC, it pains, partially, to relate, is seeing someone. If it weren't for - let's quickly give her a name - Polyhymnia - it would be dead. But she is. Oh life! But it hurts! Do I even love MC? But this is all for the best, surely. We can both remain happy. Seriously, this is for the best. I can only thank the Weltgeist. But to have been unchosen, to have been, albeit incredibly obliquely, and probably more for circumstantial than for other reasons rejected! Sois sage, o ma douleur, et tiens toi plus tranquille. But not my will, but yours. But skotodeino! I spiral into darkness. It's funny how the pain of hurting MC is considerably less than my pain now. Humankind, tho woeful vessel! And how life, at all moments, surprises you. I never saw that coming! Recorditi di mi, che son la tua vita, this instant. No. Really, this is the best possible outcome! I am literally not exaggerating with all these exclamation points, this is how I feel at present. This is life: as the skurl without of excited students, the banter within, the knocking of heart on skin ( inskin, i mean). The slight wet of my hair; the waiting for a message from PH. The stomachwanking agony of emotion. The desire just not to be, to be away from these feelings. But these feelings are life, and it is not to be avoided.

Be positive! I need to turn this around, to get my mind off the events that transpired: as she said 'I've kind of...', and I knew the ending of the sentence. And a year of my life... but think back even to yesterday. This is a good result. But it hurts! The future however is mine and PH. I can and will have a girlfriend this year, hopefully. That was my goal. And a nice girl, and a non-complicated one.

God be thanked.

oh life, you dolorous thing. instead of a gap, now, it seems i have a glut of frauen, tho she yclept mc remains, as is her wont, on the fence. However, things are such that I fear she may think that the pretender to the wattthrone, is in fact already enthroned, on account of her having seen us together. And this, if I were her, would pain, and so i feel. I could be wrong: she could - mirabile, at least sort of, dictu - not like me, and I'm unfettered. She could - h.d. - like me still. In which case not only am I fettered, but, should anything ever happen, the other would get hurt. But the thing is, the mc like is of much antiquer vintage, and preferencewise, it has to go with her. This despite the fact that she can be rude and incommunicative, which the other isn't. So my provisional plan, life, is just to bite the fucking bullet, and ask, if an opportunity arises, mc out. If she says no, then fuck it - excuse me, readers, for what i am about to say is harsh, horrid humanly speaking - i have the other to fall back on. This is not how one treats people. But... I'm going to do my darnest not to hurt anyone, including myself. Indeed, I, hereby, in front of God and the interwebz, do solemnly swear to do anything within my power to, if someone is to be hurt, make that person be me. So yes, am I to be on the look out to ask mc out.

Hundredth post. And it's quite a happy one: it is even conceivable, tho this isn't so happy, that I am in the position of having two bitchez after me. The aforementioned non-MC one and I today had dinner together, and I am led to believe that her being at dinner was directly on account of my being the same. So the plan now is to tarry a bit, see what the splash is, then textify her. Wrt to mc, the problem is she is very reserved in this respect, she gives just nothing away, tho our meeting in class on monday was very effortless indeed, which was nice. I am righting because I have not been sleeping these nights, because my thoughts have been contorted with the thoughts I am expressing. It is perhaps early - it is, in fact, the second day of term - but things are looking well up for this year.

Hallo Hallo.

Well, back to uni, back to blubbery, blubbery einsam seelenleben, wo kein wort von mc kommt, und das internetfrau schreibt mir noch nicht. doch... God doesn't close a door but he opens a window, in the form of yet another siren, who keeps despair far hence. What happened was I met, on the stairs, a young lady with quite a name on my first name back. We talked for two hours over tea about music and such like, swapped numbers. It was nice. She is a dreamy, intellectual type, you know, smiley and slightly kooky. I've been trying, successfully, let it be known, not to text her, to play it cool so that any misinterpretation as to the nature of her interest be not made evident by over-friendliness. However, text her I will, in the next couple of days, perhaps. In other news, my roommate is awesome, cqfc ( ce que fut connu), and my place is far from not bad, even if I am so saying myself. Let us see how things pan out, and especially the meeting with she called mc.

Well, it's the last Saturday night before college again begins. It's been a fine summer; some positives rolled out, some pleasing intellection, some mild despair. It's my vow not to be alone the rest of the year. How exactly this is to come about, i'm not sure. MC is the main target. So I suppose it will behove me to ask her out or something. There is other internetful broad. She's older and more likely to intercourse me, which is good, but she's not MC. She's criminally disinterested in things. Wrt religiosity, which was one of the goals of the summer, I think the position that I've reached is that there may indeed, rationally speaking, be a God, but it seems hard to see how he could interfere in human affairs, since he doesn't appear to. Perhaps the mere fact that belief in God helps is not to be interpreted as just a evolution wrought kink in our brains, but an indication that we are on to something: that we are wired for belief because that's how he wants it. Second conclusion: Jesus may well be he. Let us grant that a fair bit of the gospels may not record accurately what he said ( that this is the case is fairly well established in biblical commentaries). Nevertheless, we have that he is, that he is at the very least a pointer to God ( allowing as a limiting case of pointinghood that a pointer can point to itself)... I mean wrt to the above. I believe, and am ameliorated. Whence the amelioration? God or me? Is there a difference? But then, what about placebo effect - amelioration without even belief.

But I'm still not being moral, not sufficiently. It is easy to fall into a mire, to overlook good doables. God would not, should not be happy with how I live. This I need to make true for myself. But it's a process: I may, or may not, get there eventually.

Hello hello. Well, life continueth. I return to college prolly this day 3 weeks hence. Beginning to get a bit nervy therebecause. Let me count the day. I gymed, then ate rice, then read about the cosmos, then some acts, then some Dennett. It is a fine, fine day. Very hot : perhaps it's even too late to say that it's the last hurray of the summer. Old MC been back in contact, as, to be honest, I suspected she would be. I do think I genuinely like her. Also FL seems to be a potentiality, despite the fact that she don't know philosophy for shit and perhaps hides dark secrets. But, in fact, despite the anonymity of this blog, that's a fairly shitty thing to say about someone. W, after all, WJD? There's no way that's not a valid question. Is this the case? I.e. is Jesus' moral teaching just straight correct? Anyhoo, I have a sort of cerebral if not biotic xianity going, and i'm fuelling that sucka with more cerebrum, which is prolly the last thing it needs. But I think certainly it's a necessary condition for me that it be intellectually coherent. Hawking apparently says we don't need God; 'll have ( why does no one use such a fly abbreviation?) to check out his book, see if this is indeed the case. Time for food.

Ah, du armiges Armheit! Life bears itself heavy. There appears a divide in my family between the socially successful and the not, and I'm in the not category. One must just hope. In a month I'll be back there where it is possible to cease to be alone. I have made the requisite efforts on my self this summer, physically, hopefully mentally. The idea of providence is interesting. It appears to me, though this is of course a very open to interpretation thing, that God does indeed provide. There seems to come when I need it something to tide me over. I don't want to expatiate on the theory behind this because since I am still howling alone, but the case in point is that young MC appears to have fallen off the radar in quite an extreme and potentially awkward come the recommencement of term fashion, which I guess in fact hurts, as the fact that I am indeed likeable is in sore need of confirmation, life long wise, and this rather infirms it, sadly. However, the window has been opened, tho potentially quickly shut again on account of drear, in the form of a fraulein ( hereafter FL?), sameaged and seemingly lonely and unhiding of it. So perhaps if things should develop, I could go home to some hope. But we seem to have run out of conversation quite early. Well, we'll see. The most important thing is to remember certain verities: there's a good chance that a God exists, the happiness of my family is something that I should rejoice over ( think of the alternative: if they were unhappy, would I be happier? Thankfully the answer to that is 'no'), I need to help and buffet and try to live well for the less happy. Just please, cosmo, let it not be empty for me any more!

Well, the summer progresses with the gait of a sullen cow, mooing and lowing ponderously, through heavy stomachs on hot days traverse ca et la by shining thoughts. Some negative MC action, it must be said, tho I am somewhat confident like Abraham was confident that things can resolve themselves. I remember near the start of the year I suggested that this could have been my year: if something should happen on my return, it still could be tho 3/4s of it has been the same old solitary me, which I hate. Hope, as I said, deferred etcs. And I wouldn't like to wait as long as Abraham. So I am doing one of my characteristic August and august projections: what will things be like for me come, say, Christmas? Still howling lonely?

Ah life, thou spritely little thing. Hope deferred and all that. Well, how are the holidays shaping up for me? Been dentist, been gym, excogitating some innaresting stuff both logic wise and religion wise, but there remains the old problems, that, well, I'm what I am, unpeopled and unserene thereat, and hope does indeed attend me, and let's just hope that hope'll be made real. To look back on a life of unrealized hope! But I shouldn't even think about that shit. I do tend to believe that it is possible to gain what one wants, but when it's, the final frontier, human contact, to misquote the simpsons, well, there my confidence isn't so great, for confidence gaineth support inductively likesay as the bible has it.
And moreover moreover moreover, it's ridiculous, well kind of, that I should blemish my life with complaints thereabouts, to the extent that I get to spend my time doing what I like etc., my family are happy, more or less, or are such that my happiness is a function of theirs, and I am aiming for mine, unlike in time gone by. One can just propel oneself forwards. That's all there is to it.
Anyway, I continue religiousing, tho I fell off the wagon. Been augmenting my biblestew with a bit of bhagavadgita, and some relatively mediocre book on buddhism. I would like, without going nuts about it, to purify myself, sort of like a summer clean, mainly physical, and perhaps attempt to face up to the howling dismal woe that deep down makes me unable to stop for a moment.
Deep, huh? But anyway, we all have our own, I think, HDW, we all feel, or at least many people, alienated from others, driven constantly to distraction ( not what that phrase means I'm sure but who cares)

Well, gloria in excelsis deo; hereby is indicated a problem. I feel uncomfortable, embarrassed even it seems to say, Thanks God in foro externo, by which I mean in public. So why didn't I just say so? For thanking God seems, just, unme. I can do it in private, certainly, but it seems epaischunomai to euangelion, which isn't very good, at least to the imagined secular readership of this blog. Really, thanking God isn't cool. But fuck it like. Thanks, God. And the cause of my thanking is that - shock horror - today I finally went to the dentist, a task I've been putting off and fearing for months and less anxiously years, and things are ok! I need stuff to do, like, but nothing too drastic. Amazingly happy: I was certain that the original sin of my alcoholism was to reverberate throughout my life. That my mouth would be a window to ruined liver, kidneys, teeth. But it doesn't appear so. Now the scoffers would be moderately right to say, well, what's God got to do with the acid content of your mouth? Perhaps nothing, but should it be off hand ruled out? I'll admit it sounds stupid: why would he care about my mouth when all the tragedies etc. But I don't know: one hears oftentimes of new Christians finding things to fall in their lap in a strange way. Perhaps there is no correlation here: only those new Christians who happen to have something good happen mention it, but again, who knows. For with the premise that God exists, nothing except some common sense theology stands in one's way. But the more important point is that my belief that God was there to support me determined by going; my belief in God has kicked into touch the recalcitrant addictions, or at least improved them. We are heading here into pragmatic conception of truth here, and I'm hungry, so we'll stop.

An empty, empty, empty afternoon. My religiosity continues, albeit dubiously. For de omnibus dubitandum and mockedandum and not treatedforultimatelytrueandum, but religion requires that one shake off that postmodern coil n take some things serious. And you know, I'm very just like doubtful about everything, above all the existence of God. It's the same old problem, the eternal problem: do we, qua weak, come to God because we're weak or invent God therebecause? But it's really a function of the fact that i'm getting nothing, spiritually speaking: I feel nothing. Also, i don't give a dutch palm tree for eternal life, nor have I any fears re hell. A theophany would be nice. But for me I think it's a question of having like a personal, divine trainer: I want to have life, and have it to the full, not an eternal facsimile thereof, for let's face it, an eternal life with God is not like any life we know. Moreover, my track record seems to indicate that I can't do so: but is that fair? I made a moderately good effort, detailed in all its painful glory below, and came close. So perhaps my motives are wrong. But then so are alcoholics' etc, they just wanna screw the pooch of booze addiction in their addled pelts likes. Moreover, it says that God won't turn anyone away. I.e., if God exists, then he won't turn anyone away. I don't see to have been turned unaway, ergo God doesn't exist? Perhaps patience and, as Husserl would put it, an empty intending, awaiting fulfilment patiently. I've nothing else to do the summer anyway, and the change to flex my self-control muscle isn't to be sniffed at. But these are probably not the avenues of thought to be traversing, on account of the pascalinity.

Well, let's see. Back at home for c. a month, in peace. Several straggling addictions have been, it appears, curbed. And by what? Well, it seems, by God. Of course perhaps not: perhaps by me. Been reading and thinking through various matters religious. The problem of sin is still the problem that I have: I wrong you, and yet am forgiven not by making amends to you, but my being forgiven my God. An Aristotelian conception of sin: no relations, just properties of my. Now one interpretation is that it's both. That by wronging someone one qualifies them and oneself. One can then remove one's qualify but not the other's. It just seems unfair, does it not? That one can be a dick, hurt someone deeply, and then be forgiven, while the other continues to suffer. Exactly, unfair. But, does not the justice system operate according to the same presumption? Are we not looking, in this idea of punishment, precisely an eye for an eye? There are two different issues here: it's unfair because the wrongdoer isn't punished, it's unfair because the wrongdoee isn't comforted ( or better phrase). So, the ideal situation would be: I repent, then God rewards the other, sort of a psychical settlement. Why does this not occur? Ultimately we're back, it seems, to theodicy. Precisely to dice, dike. But we should disentangle the two ideas of punishment and settlement.

My 90th post, and the last for a while probably. It is now completed. Incredibly painful. I don't really want to rake over things, but I will. Many deeply sleepless nights: a real rapprochement this, last, week. Last night we had tea. I thought we had got somewhere. I planned, hoped, that this evening we would do something. At dinner she was distant; something had happened. The question that will torment me: was it that I didn't express something at tea, or was it that she saw something at tea that she didn't like? I can't go on. But I will.

I think we are at the stage when finally all hope is extinguished for this year; and I feel fine. It is sad, that it is very conceivable, if not certain, that we mutually like one another, and that I could, at close of play, have been pulled out of the circle of the self. But one must attempt to distance oneself from one's pathemata, and concentrate specifically at this time on one's mathemata, or whatever the greek for things-to-be-learnt would be, and more generally on to kalon in one's life. Indeed, I think it's almost without self-deception that I now accept my fate, and that i'm not perpretrating that old fallacious trick of willing myself not to will because the non-willed happens. It's been, tho painful, often a more pleasant year than before. I have tried, and tho materially failed, I came, I think, pretty close. I've learnt things - unfortunately not how to interact with strangers, which is after all important. But I have made at least a good friend in her. The plan for the summer is to sort things out and continue to read ta biblia. But it's confusing. There are many things in there that just seem unpleasant. The idea of the etymological paraclete well comforts, but all the klauthmos kai brugmos ton odonton doesn't sit well. Also, the fact that I seem to be practicing, if that is not too strong a word for what I am doing, a very recreational christianity doesn't seem quite right. Of course, many people do, but many people are idiots. It seems to do it, it is something one must do entirely w heart + mouth + deed + life: it is not just some analgesic, or shouldn't be. But then: it is not for all to go nuts, really, is it, for in that case priests et al. would be the only religious people. And indeed, it seems some people would trim down the message to two words: Have faith, and that this is sufficient and necessary to be a christian. The problem is one just doesn't know: things conflict. What if having faith were only necessary: i assume no-one will deny this. Ultimately perhaps we need help from experience. To the extent that faith is necessary, abide in faith for a bit and see if one is enlightened. Say one's prayers; act decent towards others; be thankful in good and comforted in bad times. See where it heads. Yes. Allora, I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank God for my present peace and situation.

Ah life, the pain it holds itself quieter again. I just don't know! Whether the frau likes me or not. I just don't know. I think it is very plausible: should I make yet another push for it? No: the stress it caused me last time was very nearly seriously ruinous to my health. I do, however, I think, really like her; it's not just that she's a her. But time is so short; there isn't any. I guess the thing is just to continue, vaguely hope, and just spend time with her when I can. Just hope. With regards to my religiosity, its presence in my head seems to be a function of my misery; or my happiness. I give thanks, and seek consolation. I don't constantly think on it; I really don't know if one is supposed to. Do I believe? Is - to ponderously go over what has already been ponderously pondered - it just out of desperation that I turn there? No, maybe not. In fact, even if today - and thanks, one really must say thanks and why not to God, for for so many people every day is misery, and one day is not a negligible portion of life - I am at an even level, moodwise, there will come time when I won't be. But,,, what is the meaning of religion? A comforter? What does one, qua religious person, do? I don't know; I guess I can do what I can do, give thanks and seek comfort, comfort and thanks, thanks and comfort.
I guess, if I wanted to, an awkward question I could ask myself would be her or God. And I guess if I were truly serious, the answer would be God, but I guess it isn't. But this isn't my fault.
You know, I believed that prayer was unnecessary, because God can discern the raw thinks even if not conceptualized in words: but for us, for whom expression in words often leads to new revelations about what we think, this is not the case. Oculi omnium in te sperant, domine.

Well, it's silly to hide out of shame the train of thoughts that have been occurring to me. They are of a religious bent. No I know the first argument that will be put forward is that i'm simply attempting to alleviate my misery by positing an invisible friend in the sky, and that I am thus weak. If not formally this seems to beg the question. For of course if I weren't miserable - which, parenthetically speaking, I am not, at present - I probably wouldn't be moving in that direction. But that doesn't prove anything. Perhaps one needs to suffer in order to come into a relationship with God. The sense of embarrassment I feel writing these words is interesting: it is an attack on who I am, the utterly wattian rationalist. Yes, it is. But again this isn't an argument against the existence of God.
However, it will be noted that the argumentation above is extremely weak and full of lacunae. Is this not an indication that I am already sacrificing reason to palliate my woes? Hmmm. Hauptpremise: One turns to God because one is weak ( n.b. this isn't a new train of thought - this will be a stream of consciousness blog). Because one can't deal with the world as it is. Yes! Of course, human weakness doesn't prove the existence of God, but nor does the fact that people who are weak turn to God disprove it.
Bleh. This isn't clear at all. God doesn't exist: people invent him because they are weak. God may exist: people turn to him because they are weak. If their weakness is alleviated - as mine seems to be being alleviated, or at least my misery - after this turn, does it not become more plausible that God exists? No; it's just the power of positive thought. The power of positive thought is the only explanation, because God doesn't exist, or, the power of positive thought is an explanation, and i'll admit a good one.
But anyway: my main point was to say that I have abandoned all hope of MCness, at least this term. This sentence no longer has power to rent me in twain. If God exists, then he cares for me. My misery is shared; I gain perspective. A simple happy day of reading; a happy family. Friends, of a sort, or at least one. I needn't look at people with envy because of what they have that I lack; there is something else. A lack is filled. A simple happy enough day after days of unslept misery: by surrendering. There is something above me, a meaning. Something to make me realize that for which I have to be thankful, and to console me in misery. To take a step back. None of this is an argument for the existence of God.

Miserable, utterly, utterly miserable. I really feel as if I am losing it. Sleeping little, constant bug of anxiety in stomach over her. Literally almost shaking at the moment from physical and mental weakness. I have fucking _tried_, but it just doesn't work. I seriously feel like i am predestined never to exit the circle of the self. The fact is that i've gone from thinking that she liked me to now thinking that she didn't. The time i've spend, as I feared I would, chasing a shadow. It was perhaps just the misinterpreted friendliness of a friendly girl. And through my so weak body I am contemplating one final push, a final facebook message tonight. But that means, probably, another sleepless night. And my cards, which are already more or less out, being further out. You see I think i opened myself towards her, and she rejected me, subtillisima. It is very conceivable that i'm overimagining. What should I do? One final push? I need to abandon all hope, to make the moves, like a sceptic, while having no motivating interest. Help me.
You see, all this could be my imagination. She could like me and something could happen. But my thoughts are now that her thoughts envers moi aren't positive. My fear of rejection, I think, is pushing me away. But there have been negative tokenlets: an unwillingness to keep in a dialogue, a reticence boardering on avoidance yesterday at dinner. Fuck it, I think the evidence is still in my favour, and tho it could fuck me up, I think i'm going to make that last push. It's the braver thing to do. Sei brav, armes Ding.

Profoundly low. Will things get better for me? Bad MC day. I could cry. I am just bad at being social. Fuck. I need help, of some sort. The fucking newly light nights perturb, giving me no place to hide my loneliness. But it's not loneliness per se: it's past and present loneliness, skipping relentless and sore into a pained future, looking back on a pained past. When in school I had what it wouldn't be an overexaggeration to call almost a nervous breakdown, because I was alone. Subsequently, I became an alcoholic and the problem calmed down. Subsequently I became obsessed with studying, and it stayed calmed down. But it has reared its head, as this blog testifies. And i'm in exactly the same situation.
But more concrete. For, as has been more than intimated, i think that the girl indeed likes me. But the last two weeks have been, from my perspective, shit. And indeed if it's only from my perspective, still it's my perspective that is making me miserable. So i need to change my perspective. I need, as it were, to bracket the external world. But that world pulls me back in, and burns. When i'm at home, i'm alone, tho with family. And I seldom get too badly depressed, since distracted. But here....I'm not sleeping, I have no strength. Exactly like what happened previously, in school. I need help.

Is depression occurrent or perdurant? For I fear I am thus. Sleeping ill, full of self-recriminations in a most beastly tone. the cause? well guess! mein beliebtes bleibt von mir entfernt. But the most recriminatory, in this recriminationary time, is that we still don't recriminate. Ok, that doesn't make any sense whatsoever. But I do need to analyse my pain, that it may be loosened up, like the gut-blocking turd it is ( for as before remarked, my gut is where I feel, and I wake up these mornings damnably anxious). So what to say, what to do? I need to recall that I am me, and am not them, and therefore can't be held accountable to the same standards. This sounds to a certain extent daft, I know. But is at least somewhat true. Also, the most recriminatory is that I feel like MC has been giving me hints which I haven't taken, and the opportunity may have been missed. Because it's only seldom that we see each other. And time is running out. And all my hopes for this year were pinned on her. And the cosmos is empty apart from us. I've been troubled with some self-harming ideation, on which i will never act, but tis still disturbing. I need to regain equilibrium and, to repeat it yet again, learn to be auto kath'hauto before I be pros ti. I need on all hope to strangle it to jump on it and gnaw its neck. If I am lucky....but i am not lucky. Am I predestined always alone to be? That's what it feels like, and that's what attrists. But it may be false. I don't know. Really, simply to be sometimes is truly heroic. What a fucking stupid thing to say.

Unhappy. Work is problematic, MC action isn't and won't be at least until next week and probably not even then, i'm tired, there's an unhappy gutweh, my room is untidy and recognised as such, there's an unhappy gutweh, i'm tired, MC action isn't and work is problematic. In situations such as these the main thing is to keep breathing, not to let one's anxieties cause one to skotodinein, to spiral into darkness, not from wonder but from woe. Why are things - comparatively speaking - so difficult? And in this comparatively speaking all is revealed. For cmon da fuck. My room will be fine, my gutweh will cease, work will fall together. I should count my blessings, and let a smile be my umbrella, tho a frown is, it must be admitted, a much better one. But one! That I should fall in das Man, the one! And be like them! That I should be hen, and not aoriston! For I'm not at present thinkable (vide. Ar. Mph bk4 ch4-6). It makes one one-der that I, ebenbild der Gottheit, not arseholicular in any potent sense, bearer of positive qualities should waste away ein-sam, never Zwei, and always thus in Ver-zwei-flung. But my christ I drei! Yet I vier that nothing good will happen; I cinque so low before, into the circle of the self, that to pull os out, and to live with others, shenaniganly ( for http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7009115265903181305sechs is important) and otherwise is impossible..I'm too sept in my ways! But let us tarry slightly, reader, and separate the huit from the tares. Hope, as it has been remarked upon, eternally bleeds and bleeds eternal. And to the extent that life is like a lottery, only shit, it is the case that to be in it one must in it, and i am at least formally in it. I have a location in space, and time, qualified quantities and quantified quantities; i'm wearing clothes and sitting am writing an essay and being hurt my the slings and cuntrows of outrageous fortune. So as I say, formally i'm in it. I can't think of any suitable pun for nine unfortunately, but i'm not going to let this tarassei me: I'll be zehn about it.

Lorks a lordy i'm predictable. Despite my sane advice to myself not to let my good plan harden and become an obsession, my good plan hardened and became an obsession thru a harsh night and a poor day capt by a negative tokenlet. First, the fond fantasies of which i'd been free for a while, letting things happen, returned. Fond they were, and fooooolish. Shitwich. The day, I went to a boring class with the hope of seeing here, she didn't arrive. But all my hopes were pinned on dinner. We sit and bam! Admittedly, the etiquette dictates that she don't sit with me. But we didn't see each other after either, and I go home sadhearted, aware that Tuesday is my best herday, and that the opportunity to formulate my plan will thus almost inevitably not occur this week, and so another week is gone. Concrete hopes and plans suck, especially in such a variableful environment as social interaction. BUT MOTHERFUCK GODDAMMIT TO SHIT, IS MY PLAN CONDEMNED TO GATHER MUST WITH ALL THE OTHER POSSIBILIA, SUCH AS THE PROOF OR DISPROOF OF THE CONTINUUM HYPOTHESIS??? That one can lack occasion, and potentially nothing else. For that is all i appear to be lacking, and moreover it's a much more concrete occasion that i lack, namely and simply the occasion to talk one-one with her.
Therapy: This is what is. I am condemned to by room for another night. Something may happen again in future: put the plan in your back pocket and let it gather dust, and just merely concentrate on the happiness of working and abstractly hoping.

Funnily enough, the more i excogitate certain matters, the more it appears that she has been hinting to me. but I may be overreading things.

Blogging in an attempt to formulate a plan. Now there have been little concrete, tho many abstract indications, some detailed pastwise, other more present. It is my sense that she does like me. Moreover, I guess I may as well test the waters; at this stage there is little left to lose. So I need to propose something. But what? This is my question. There are several things here: first, I can make no concrete plans, along the lines of when x happens,i'll do y, for experience teaches that there is seldom a coincidence between the abstract and the concrete. Rather what I need is plans for various eventualities. So if x then y. Think a largeish computer program. But what is there? Well, step 1, i will see if there's anything on at the cinema...scratch that, i've just had a good idea. I will find and dl a film that pertains to both of our interests. Yes! Then, i'll casually mention it. If she says, oh, i'd like to see it then we're laughing. It is concievable that she hinted at something of this kidney last week.
OK, now the second part of the blog is not the plan per se, but rather plan theory, and specifically my attitude towards the plan. I can't assume that the plan will come to fruition either now or in the next n weeks. But let it rest. I am happy with my plan.

Ah, days. It's those things that aren't meant to hurt one that do so; an off hand remark on the part of my friend that i go home most weekends. This is true; but the implication, that i have nothing to do here, which he nevertheless knows, that he knows it attrists. The days have been but good. But there is a paradox: in order not to be pained, i must not hope concretely. But if I don't hope concretely i don't plan, for these are more or less synonymous. The betristfulest: that it is almost certain that we like each other, but that for want of an occasion nothing is to happen. But well, we are revolving, in this blog, in circles.

Ah life, the emotions hold themselves much better today. Yesterday I was all sur toute joie pour l'etrangler j'ai fait le bond sourde (?) de la bete feroce, today my douleur is plus tranquille. I think the important thing is to hope, but not concretely hope. But this I mean let the fond fantasies play, because quite simply they make me happy; I don't have the constitution to be dmom, really, perhaps no-one does. The nature of my violent overreactions is interesting in itself; it is part and parcel of emotional thinking: nothing is done by halfs. But the doulorous counterpoint to the above is that my thiseved contentitude owes it's existence to tokens of esteem from my beliked, little ones indeed, but ones nonetheless. But the weekend looms with nothing to do, although let's not let facts spoil mood.

CUUUUUUUUUUNT. Compelled twice to blog away the pain. Dinner with her. Bad. Well, I exaggerate. But not good. I'm just a fucking spasticwit. Truly, I am upset. FUCK. Back now at home with nothing but the gloam of the computer screen, the lone of the voice, the utter abeyance that results when one realizes that it's too much to call os TMWP, for the first two words misrepresent mightily the state of affairs. For I am outis, Meon. Yes; when MC be MC in this blog, and a definite description of me be TMWP, so hereafter i'm not Watt, for that suggests an interrogative, and we know from Heidegger that Dasein aka TM is the interrogating animal, and I am not TM, therefore just Meon. Better of course would be or even to refuse to use the indexical consisting entirely of the first letter of indexical.
But such philological pleasanteries cannot console me now. For what has been realized is the crushing of the hopes which malgre moi-meme I must and had to continue to cherish. Now nothing. For opportunities will not present themselves again this week, or the next x weeks. And this will almost inevitably, when i reread this in 6 or so weeks, prove to be the case.
And it may seem stupid, indeed it is, adolescently so, but at present I have the sense of the utter aphorismenos eis dusangelion eatou. That there is no overseeing providence, nor failing that a rhyme or reason. Again, let me reiterate that one shouldn't judge these learian thoughts a) on their cause b) until one has leered the kelch. For christbechristed Christ but I - am - trying. The ease , my god, the ease of others. What to do? a) tonight b) the next x days. Ultimately what can I do? This fit will pass and scab, the slight trails will be lighted up again; when I go out at present I'll begin the process of analysing the black box in my head ( unpack the metaphor yourself). I'll most probably convince myself of something, a tokenlet, like a universe that takes away all and leaves a watch on a dessert for shits and giggles (k, this is overly obscure). Imagine, tho you don't know what I look like, a camera above me slowly zooming out, to me becoming eventually a speck, an ant like apparently appears in the film the third man. Ah fuck it, i can't be bothered no more. Fuck you, cosmo!

Day bloggin'

Not, this time, on account of any acute pain, but rather a dull mischievous throb. A week was passed ataraxic at home, and i've returned to nichtsberg, wherein my plan to lasciare ogni speranza, cept the mild, unattainable ones such as the hope for the afterlife, but not that, worked well for the first but is grating now we've reached the second day. Little MC shenanigans have been or are expected to be called. There is an item: but I don't want to expose it on account of thereby, tho this is truly ridiculous, deanonymising myself or her: suffice it to say, the possibility that any interest she may have in me is as a means and not an end. Hopefully i'm wrong, but really, what does it matter? I think I am fairly resolved to be going back home in a couple of months to a friendless home, with all my imperfections, having failed at my appointed task of which I wrote those months ago and which this blog has chronicled. One must learn to love o\s. But well: the second most platitudinous platitude is: while I live, I hope.

Well, today nothing happened - in steve coogan swimmingpool attendant voice, if that pleases you. So 2 days remain, that something happens, which it of course will. Cast my net somewhat on dating site, without responses. I mean, really? My profile is more or less indistinguishable from perfection. But anyway. I wanted to blog about the general contentitude i was feeling; until I logged on to fb and was reminded of my fucking up, which has rereleased the self-directed expletives. Anyway. Good day: Hope bleeds eternal, got my accomodation sorted out for next year, with my friend, in hopefully a nice, small place. Very interesting and productive studying. Not too woe begirt about e'thing. There is always hope, fuck it, dmom needs hope. This is close to a contradictio in adjecto, but anyway. What, then, for the necessary concomitant of hope, plans? No plans. I go home after tomorrow, and not too sad about it. It is. One needs hope; tho one can't, one will, go on. While i breath, i hope. Pistis, Elpis, Agape; faith, hope, charity(?). There is undoubtably something in these words. If we take charity, as the greek and church slavonic ( Ljuby) has it, to mean some form of love, this seems like a fairly good way to live one's life.
I guess my religious leanings of late are to indicate that i need help. Moreover, it seems to me I need help in the form of a piece of luck, a piece of chance. Let us premise that I am not undesirable; let us also, more dubiously premise - no! let's not that - the name should be banished from this blog, it leads to a very painful circle - - i am liked; then, if the occasion should present itself, all could become well. So what's needed is that the occasion present itself. But it doesn't. To have done all the hard stuff and be excluded by the workings of chance! That I should have befriended on just that day! That, if ever there was, is dustuche. Really it is, it never occurred to me. Really, you fucking owe me one cosmo!

der Mann ohne Moeglichkeiten, or, the efficacy of prayer

Is it possible for the man without possibilities to be sad? When I am sad e.g. re my x's death, am i sad that x is dead or that - x is alive? If you follow me? Am I sad because of the excluded possibility or the actuality which excludes it?
Anyway, I know what you're thinking: tmwp (dmom) doesn't blog, unless in tedious fashion to recount the days many nothingnesses. But I was thinking: even if i can't take about possibilities, it's surely the case that the possibility is actual, so I can talk about it? Is that cheating?
Anyway, ima say a resounding motherfuck to the below, while still maintaining its ataraxifying benefits im einsamen Seelenleben.
Today, it was nothing, and I was fairly unperterbed until i go to my little room at close of play, when i always feel the sting of loneliness. I try; but do i? Let's say I do. God, I try, and this 'God' is both an expletive and an apostrophe. And nothing. But there are others, less endowed than me, and i'm not talking cockwise, for whom things are so easy. Well, that's surely false, but it appears so to me anyway. What one must do? I am like first order logic with no added axioms. I can't even express 1+1=2; why? Because i have no friends. It is necessary to have friends, in order to socialise, in order to meet people outside the eingeschraenkt confines of the classroom. I have no friend ergo...
Anyhoo, as per the above, what about prayer? Of course prayer surely requires one to think that almost everything is possible, and therein to wallow. So it's not exactly the thing for tmwp. But say one really believes that p will happen; one has faith. This faith manifests itself in various imperceptible ways; this enables p to happen. Now, if one were a scientific christian, it would be interesting to test this out. One prays for a bunch of things of different attainability etc; think of the cosmic ordering service; although it's bullshit theoretically, it may well work. So; can I have faith? Of course, this will be of dubious religiosity. For i don't want faith to be a better person blah blah, but for the possibility of shenanigans; so if god exists, he probably wouldn't appreciate it. But then, if one neglects the god aspect, one has no ground really for one's faith, unless one's faith in faith is founded on faith. Is this circular in a bad way? Should I start to have faith that things will happen for me? How does one do this? Is not faith per se self-deception? One says to oneself, this is going to happen; but one ex hypothesi doesn't know this is going to happen. Of course, Hegel, in a definition of characteristic stupidity, says that faith = knowledge, or rather iff in place of =. Well, dear diary, shall we try? I have faith that something will happen in the next 3 days send me into half term happy. Should I bring God into this? For the countersuggestion is: well, you shouldn't wish for something external to happen, you should rather wish that your beliefs about external things etc. ou ta pragmata again. That's a more conventional religious prayer. Now let's drop the I have faith that: something will happen in the next 3 days.

As in ontology, so in philology ( by which i mean, natch, the logos of philia, not the logos of logoi, which should of course be called logology, for then the study of the discipline of words could be called logologology, ad inf. et absurdum) analysis must end somewhere. And that, dear diary, home to my treasures, aspirations and asperities, is today. I hereby swear to leave off the thesaurology and the subtle distinctions and appurtenances, moieties &c. thereto that even that minute philosopher, Alciphron, would dismay of; to plunge into each new day utterly hopeless wrt MC, and not, as some of those new to limbo must surely do, hope that ex machina a dea will come to laetificare my decrepit age; on every blemish of optimism to make it all by all to strangle it, and thus to become, with regard to the painful, painful world of other people like a computer, for whom the possible is nothing. To put it clearly in the mathematical precision of Sartre's metaphysics: if it's through the nothing that the possible is born, then I am to plug my nothing, to become a reines etwas( une quelque chose pure). This is really quite simple: there are many actualities to feast one's eyes on, and when i'm tempted to dream, I need only look down and say, this table is white, this handwriting is untidy etc. etc. until the possible-yips are steadied. The reason for this is the following ( and btw, my analysis-lent comes in to effect after i've finished this blog): the proportion of time one spends on the possible is inversely proportional to the time one spends engaged in the interestingly actual. She and most people, are more actual than possible, and thus, in the same situation, rely less on the possible for their happiness, but presumably have actual happiness, and i think it's probably fair to say she does, and thus are less prone to the pain that the possible has in store, which has been my tormentor of late. Again this can be clarified profoundly by the word 'distractions'; if she does love me, she has other things to think of and do, is less desperate therefore that that possible - that we become together - be actualized; is less tormented therefore by the slings and arrows of outrageous postclass interactions.

I can't go on, I can't go on.

Well, the trope does hold itself as commanded. Let me recount my day. There was to be a thing. She said she was going to go. I spent the day tired and nervous, nervous and tired, breaking into, at times, nausea. Heart beating, I arrive. She is not there, and doesn't subsequently come. I conclude: when one likes someone, one attempts to see them. Perhaps she has a reason, but I doubt it. The plans I had! I even, in expectation, got a dvd that we could watch. That's sad, both dolorously and pathetically.
This has been an exhausting week, emotionally speaking, for me. First the fb, which was such a big move, which failed. Then the waiting for the response, which was another emotional fail. Then a familial visit yesterday, which was fine, but tiring, and then today, which was ueber fail. I'm tired, tired, tired. It is interesting; I can specify an emotional state which i'd like to be mine. It is that of a fisherman. I sit in the sun and wait for nibbles. Now, as far as I understand, when fishing, when one has a bite, one doesn't immediately yank the rod out of the water lest the fish isn't completely caught. One waits, until the fish is so intertwined with the barb that it's well and truly fucked. This is what i'd be; waiting, and happy to be waiting. But I want action; I am torn between not wanting to leave this term, again, empty handed, which will almost invariably be the case, as I with a real sense of sadness realize, and thus wanting to do something, with the utter impotence i feel. FUCK. just halt fuck.
I'ma read some beckett. nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi nella misericordia that you've never had, in your whole life, socialwise, a tempo felice.

just a little mantric prebed blog to say: let go. ou ta pramata, alla ta dogmata: For tomorrow, in the abstract, i have great hopes, for which reason nothing will arise. So when I be, alone, at home, tomorrow eve i want you, future trope of douleur, to be gentle, calm and quiet. For, pace below, I can go on like this, for I must, and necessarily p -> possibly p. And indeed, it is possible that (in) p(ace) ( i remain, tho not mortally). I can't go on, i'll go on. Were 7 monosyllables ever better ordered? I can go over, to my massive joy, my treasures, my evidence; and my counterevidence, the transports of woe which which induce in me is perfectly documented below. But, she is. She has both temporal and spatial extension, unlike the thoughts I tend in my little room; there is a fact of the matter in her brain, which holds independently of my weighing and counterweighing, and sighing glad and sad. If it were at all possible try if not then not. Don't force; bitchez can smell deep, dark desperation.

O Schmerz hier zittert das gequälte Herz

Was, you ask, ist die Ursach aller solcher Klagen? See below. Tourettishly watt dwells, this pained evening, calling his poor, suffering self a stupid **c**** ***t, repeatedly and vehemently. Dreading bed, attempting to forestall the darkling complaints, listening to SMP. No; it calls for analysis, tho i would bei meinem jesum wachen, that is, im himmel. The platitude has before been here offered that one must make peace first with one's self before one other can adulcify one's asperities. And it's true; one must leeren the kelch, drink the bitterheit. In english: what torments me at present is that yesterday as documented i made a move, and hoped for brilliantness, but received none. And today was indeed passable, or rather passible. But still, I feel like a stupid **c**** ***t; what am i, at 25, 17ish? Where to go? The enthymeme: If I don't achieve something soon, it will be too late; the term is within completion. Writing this shakes me, almost drawing tears. To go back home, still alone? Another ungrown, empty summer? Motherfucker. de profundis clamavi. well, that's certainly an exaggeration. One must let go; and let G-d? Really, it were foolish to let the profound woe be extinguished with,,,; what to do? Ultimately what can one? Sleep and hope, hope and sleep and try to be at peace with self. There are worse things than being alone.
BUUUUUUUUUT. To complain was not the aim of this evening writing; it was analysis. But it perhapses that one must klagen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qJJvU0YASA.
deeggbasketing. The problem is quite simply that my mood is dependent on another being. Now this is perhaps not an uncommon thing; this is the thing of love perhaps, at least a species thereof. But the temporal dimension aforealluded to, and the profound sense that the occasion will never present itself, for it hasn't; other lovers can call on past loves ( obviously first time lovers are here discounted), they know what it's like.
That's it; to requote a quote i don't even like: i want this pain to be purposeful, but have no experience of this pain having ever been purposeful. Ah CUNT, i feel no better.

the first essay i handed in in first year i got 65. This is the lowest i've ever got, but the fact that it was the first essay fairly crushed me. I remember walking a long deserted street listening to the piece by bach that begins with komm eilet und laufet; i think the exact thing i was listening to was the rather sanft Sanft soll mein Todeskummer. I was crushed. I feel my emotions in my stomach; harsh things like that are equivalent to being winded, tho something different. It is not unfair to say that i'm similarly crushed at present. Really, there isn't that much of an objective reason. She dutifully added me, tho without a message. Today we spoke after class, and it was awkward. For reasons i'm not going to get into, she says she's going to stop using facebook for a while: it is conceivable that my request introduced the awkwardness of her having to break that edict to save, so to speak, face. Actually that doesn't work. I asked whether she was going where i was going; she hesitated, and nayed. Two interpretations: she was ambivalent about going, could have gone either way, but didn't; she wasn't ex ante going to go, but considered it owing to my question, but didn't. The latter is obviously the more pleasing to me, but who knows?
There are several things here. One is that, for me, asking simple things is akin to asking big things; if she knows this, then my hand is truly revealed. Of course, on the assumption that she does like me, which is empirically well supported tho nevertheless underdetermined, this won't go amiss. But if she doesn't; well, if she doesn't, then so what? One needs to learn to get rejected eventually; thru avoidance i have lasted a long time. If she doesn't know this, then all is ok. But i don't know the answer. The second thing already alluded to is the fear of rejection and or the deep embarrassment that i feel with regard to everything other related. These aren't completely separate; ultimately i'm embarrassed because I feel that the gauche things i do will be negatively judged, which is surely linked with actual and potential rejections.
Yet another thing i'm learning is that life operates according to a fuzzy logic. Better, life is an indeterministic system. Better, and completely different: life is unpredictable, and it is but seldom that things, at least pertaining to others, pan out as one would have them pan out. For I was buoyed by the joy, last night, that I would receive a charming message from the maedchen; i could visualize it happily; but no. Ultimately time will tell whether this exploit was an utter disaster, or whether again from my position of incomplete knowledge of the workings of her neurons, I am again misinterpreting. But it seems objectively true that the hopes I had pinned on facebook will not pan out, for she won't be on it to interact with.

well, i've done something. The plan that had been slowly being mulled in my mind has been activated, and, some 2 hrs a go, a facebook friend request was sent from me to her. So what, Watt, i hear you asking. The befriending of folk is as common as a butterscotch taste in the dentures of the old. Ah, but for me! for me! The constant existent problem had been that I lack existent fb friends; thus the befriending of a new speaks more than it would otherwise. I put myself out there; slightly tho, i'll admit. It'll be interesting to see how it pans out; whether, presuming she accepts my request, she meets it with joy; whether it introduces an awkwardness as twere she understood the subtext. Tomorrow we've class tomorrow, and if it's like normal class, the occasion won't present itself that we sit together: if at this point she hasn't replied, then indeed there will be problems. I'm fully aware that what i write may indeed sound pathetic; but it isn't; the only gripe that one can legitimately level is that i'm using too many ; semicolons. For panton metron watthropos estiv, tes philemene gunes, os philei; tes me, os ouk. And this is indeed phainetai moi important; thus tis.

oh time, oh mores. Well, results from the last few days. Time spent with - ? b - not a good sign that i've forgotten here blog name. The thing is, we're both too shy to do anything. Could perhaps broach the subject. MC, but, but. It's true what they say, that you shouldn't get what you wish for, because it may make you sad. Well, I don't think they do say that, but anyway. And it was a rather piccola cosa. We dined. I was shyer than normal, lacking things to say, tho we did again do the getting to know you stuff. It's weird, she just sort of asks, what music do you like? do you play sport? etc, just drops such getting to know you fodder in easily. So that was positive, but the negative was my shyness, a lack of mutual intelligibility, and then, the hauptgeirksamkeit, when we separated us from, she said, i'll see you in lectures, an indication that she wouldn't in fact see me before, and our next lecture isn't for a week. Perhaps I overanalyse; but it could imply that she doesn't see us sitting together at dinner again, that any charm i may have possessed has fallen away. Perhaps i overanalyse. nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.

Well. A tokenlet of esteem at 6, life playing according to the rules of giving when one doesn't ask. I was standing; there she was; was I going to x? No I wasn't; a crinkle of disappointment on her face. Now crinkles of disappointment on people's face are more common, indeed, among the rich, in whom it can be insincere. I am inclined to think however that this crinkle wasn't insincere. At this point i really think the evidence is, if not overwhelming, at least strong enough for me to be confident about. Doch, doch! The plan that lies in the outer reaches of my mind: to facebook her. If only I used facebook, it were done, procul dubio. The thing is I have an objectively pathetic number of friends, which however I don't especially care to increase, even if that were possible, which it weren't, as I don't know many people. I think it were welcome. But; to stress the submerged, tho ridiculously obvious train of thought...Well, what is it? That she knows I have few friends, that I like her? The former she wouldn't care about, the latter she would - ex hypothesi - like. I am actually seriously considering this course of action at present. The problem is that we don't have occasion to encounter each other one-one, to the extent that we did last year.

Ah, the spice of pain flavours the otherwise dull thoughts, making them blogworthy. One speaks with those whom one likes. One speaks with those whom one likes. It's not hard: 7 monosyllables. But alas. Just had class with mc. She almost sat beside me; had have, had a not done so. We said hello, touched base. Her f--king friends and my f--king friends are an embuggerance. I don't have the oomph to interrupt, or rather to interpose myself in n>1 place relations, specifically of the conversational variety. Well, let us not lament. I am fully aware of the problem: and this is the first step towards a solution. But tomorrow having passed, the week will be over, herwise. But again, that's an overly negative way to view things. I must interpose myself. I have a plan. If I can manage to sit beside her, all the best; else, try and catch her after class and ask the simple question: are you going homewards? Either answer is a result. Oh life, why can't one speak one's mind?

Nothing really to say but yet I am saying. No mc action today, when she should have been in class, lamentably. Overall was as calm as I have been in a long while today; not that i'm usually terribly uncalm, but there is a perpetual if not knot then kink in my belly. Plan: hope that she comes to class tomorrow, hope that something happens. That, a) there is an occasion, and that b) I take it. Please world, oedipus me, to put it negatively indeed. I guess the fact that i'm going home this weekend takes the sting out of it; i won't have to endure the lonely weekend that would have resulted hopeless had nothing happened and hopeful but still lonely had it had. Gosh, this is dull.

ueber logik, frauenzimmer, und dante

Well, im compelled twice before the cock has crown to blog, and let's hope the old noodlebox doesn't betray me, making that thrice, during the long sleep hours that i've been struggling to fill. It is a consequence, I imagine, of my back to term jitters and l'amor che ne la mente more ed mi ragiona, w/ infernal suspirations, that i've been reading poetry. Indeed, I just spent a good while looking for Dante's poem, l'amor che nella mia mente move, which evidently doesn't exist, and isn't even sensibly italian, but which I had taken to mean the love that moves in my mind. However, what does exist is Ciò che m’incontra ne la mente more, what meets me dies in my mind, and l'amor che ne la mente mi ragiona, love that reasons in my mind, from which I, clever sausage that I am, have coined the line above. For it does die, and yet talks, suspirationally ofc, provoking from me tourettesesque self-asriptions of motherfuckerhood and sundry other unpleasantnesses. It's been a poor, resultless few hours, that is to say. However, it indeed das Fleisch weint, der Geist jubelt, and i've been throwing myself profoundly into my logische untersuchungen, which is causing me no end of delight. Today I finally got, well, very almost, the completeness proof, and am thus closer to loewenheim-skolem comprehension. Thence to Hilbert, and you've got yourself an essay baby. So all is not bad, tho the heart does hurt.

ah, darn it to gosh. As twere an unravelling sock, the fabric of my love is coming unknit, and I am compelled to day blog. Contrary to my aforeplanned plan, I misacted apropos mc just there. On existing class, we were close; but I talked to someone else. This is not how such things are done: again my ineptitude will be mistaken for rudeness. One talks before all to those whom one likes. One does not walk by them in silence. When things continue in this art and wise, things will indeed come to naught. This was what was prophesied: as we are not in class only the two of us, the occasions of talking will be drastically curtailed. Given that I am bad at initiating conversations, there will be fewer occasions for the same. With each passing day, she slips but further. I must do something.

Ah, well i began writing something yesterday but really as is known woe is a better motivation than moderate contentitude to writing and it ended up unfinished. So the shoulder of my beloved, at this concrete 9 moment in time, when my anti-virus' daily scan means I type, and words hesitate to appear, like the tokens of affection i would have shewn, but that my arsey shyness prevents. For what does love do if not wringt mich, biegt mich, schlingt mich und schwingt mich

wirft mich unnnndddd

faengt mich zurueck?

Rilkean emboldishments betoken ill, im sure you'll agree. The Uebersetzung of all this, in the register of pathetic, geangsted 25y/o males, is the following. Yesterday, the first day of being back, yielded several tokens of the type blandishment ( google tells me that's the wrong word, or at least not the write word). A warm howdo, a singling out after class to verbal intercourse; somewhat marred by an awkward chance encounter later in a bookshop. Today but there was a frostiness that is no longer on the roads; same room but infinitely separate, eyes as twere of two blinds, invisible to each other. Really, the verbalization of the angst reveals that it is, to quote myself, a piddling merdated nothing. And indeed a plan for tomorrow offers itself: even when it introduces an awkwardness, which, being me, it will, i'm to accost her before\after class, that my affection be shown, tho my it is better to do nothing and appear like a shy fool than to open one's bag of actions and remove all doubt dictum be demolished. Yes. Also, tho I need to shower, and can't expatiate on this at the length i'd, some interesting thoughts are arisen, like the x; do i want her?

The preceding is to be taken as a propositional function ( can a prop function contain conjunctions; can one say eg " a is tall and x is short"?

Well, s'bin a bit since my last blog, on account of being in nowheresville, wherein nothing doesn't even happen, for that were, heideggerianly speaking, something. But not unenjoyable for that, it must be said. We all need rest sometimes. No, ofc, mc action. Resigning myself thereto, there's nothing to be done about it here. Overall it's been a good christmas, i should say. Don't really have anything of interest to say here. OK, i guess one train of thought, that would and perhaps should have been left on the cutting room floor, the would if i had anything else to say or presently do, the should because it doesn't present me in a good light in several ways, is that- and I do so hate to be such a bore - i'm wondering whether not to shift my Besetzung of libido from mc to she whom the hebrews call bet. For it's probable that i am, as one says, "in there" ( on condition, of course, that she never reads this) i.e. it's easier. The only problem is her quietness when combinedwith my quietness doesn't, like two negatives, make a loudness, but a pianissssssssssiiiiiiimmmmmooooo, that we have the acridity of nothing to say to each other in, as the phrase goes, meatspace. But which is my soulmate? with whom would I spent eternity in metaspace ( but which i of course mean heaven, or the secular equivalent thereof). Of course, the thing is fairly moot - at me's pace, both I and they will be acrid fossils before I make so bold as to wipe a bit of schmutz off one of the fine frauenpetticoaten. I'm sure there are several other servicable anagrams, but fuck it.