I've come to realize that I've never loved, romantically or sexually, anyone I've ever met. Not even the dull, sad, and sorry people who've had the misfortune to date me. I've only ever loved one person whom, I fear, is far out of the reach of my brittle hands. For the better, perhaps. All my other common human beings can be categorized into "Jane is a smart girl, John is a good boy, and Mr. Smiles is a repulsive monster."

I don't actually desire any of you to attempt to answer the question that I didn't even bother making up. I would record these thoughts in a diary, but I feel thoughts can feel more real (real as a thought can be) when read, analyzed, and finally criticized by the wandering stranger. Already knowing my own miserable thoughts, I see no reason to jot them down for my own eyes to re-read in vivid, violent, violet detail (imagine trying to remember your nightmare in the last surreal moment). I simply miss the awkward, aching, brutally bleeding love that one feels for that certain imaginary Disney princess (dressed in pink, lips cherry red). My dull mind watches the film reel, rosy tinted and of nightmarish quality, go round and round once again.