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.