I'm always confused as to why this happens. I doesn't feel deserved, nor self-inflicted. It's weird to think that I often mean people feel too little, but often I feel too much. I often felt inspired by Hank Moody in Californication. I could relate to the loneliness, the emptiness, what seems like the unability to love a woman, the humor, the drifting. But not the love. I changed to civilian clothing and walking in to Pipehill's room. He was lying on the bed. His two female roomates were lying on their beds, the others weren't there. The previous day I had asked the asian one if she wanted to spoon. She laughed, took it with a smile, and said she didn't care to answer because she was suspecting I wasn't serious. I wasn't, I had lost a game of pool the day before, and this was my punishment. The mood went sour the day after when she got to know that, I think, or maybe she just changed her mind about me. Anyway, she seemed to not like my presence, at least that's what I interpeted from her body language. I started speaking about “my wife” to Pipehill. It was a nickname for a girl I had seen many times. There was something about her, something special. I just felt instantly attracted to her, even though she wasn't the most attractive girl. Anyway, Pipehill and I soon started acting out how one should make eye contact with her when I would catch her looking at me, or if she would catch me. The girl in the room had a laugh, and at the same time calling us retarded, as we acted out every possible scenario. Eventually I’ll crash into the state of mind where I see options as obstacles, and I lay down. I lay down because I don’t feel like standing up, because I’m finally able to step outside my own point of view and see life as what it really is. It’s filled with up’s and down’s, every day, it’s chaotic, it’s neverending… Maybe that’s why I’ve developed this abnormal condition where I no longer fear death, only injury. Because I know injury will make me weaker, less prepared to tackle whatever I may experience, mental and physical. Death will only kill me. You know, in a way, it's freeing. Being able to talk so directly to you. I apologise for any drunken uncomfortable conversation you might have had with me. This sounds... strange, but it makes a difference that you're a girl I can talk with. The other sex is clouded by mystery and a neverending game of seduction and acting. It's tiring, but what I'm really trying to say is that I like having you aroud, being able to talk to you, freely. Most girls I don't know enough to talk about this emotional shit, they're there to be a potential girlfriend, a semi-close friend, or an unknown. But you sort of know me, at least a part of me, the part I used to play, the part I'm still playing. So I can talk about deeper things, things that sting deeper into me. You probably don't deserve this wave of compressed emotion, but I have very few options when it comes to this. So I guess what I'm trying to say, is that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making you hear this boring, depressing shit. Just bear with me, becuase struggling to.