Never before has that terminology proven such an accurate depiction of my being:
My mental health is in absolute shambles, pending the idea that I had any sort of coveted "mental health" to begin with.
Emotionally speaking, I might as well be silent.
The few, remote entities that I desire any remote connection with are either too far away to bestow it upon such as myself (hence "remote"), or, as of late, rather unworthy of my time.
Oh, and I think I might have killed my mother's cat in an indirect fashion.
Needless to say, this has been slightly less entertaining or productive an evening than I might have hoped. Desired. Envisioned.
A veritable catastrophe, as it were.
Ta-da! Welcome to Hell, Miss Smith! May I take your coat? Excess baggage? Promises you don't intend to keep? Unrequited adoration? Hopeless fantasies?
To quote myself in a conversation from last evening that has already had the privilege of being made quite painfully public on its own accord:
I have reciprocation issues, I think.
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