I'm trying to be nice. 

The least you could do is tell me why the fuck you think I'm fucked up. 

As opposed to what it was before. 

You tell me how on earth "I'm talking to Rachel" led you to "that's CREEPY" and now I'm "the most disturbing guy you've ever met." 

You tell me. 

And you're no saint either. 

Neither am I. It's just hard to go on, when someone who tells you they couldn't really care about people, but could care about her dad, her sister and you, decides to change her line entirely. 

For no apparent reason. 

So I'm wrong. Why don't you tell me. Maybe I might just realise you're right. And stop fucking up the universe. 

So tell me. What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck. Did I do. 

Just another starstruck (see above for evidence*) wanderer trying to find his way in this horribly confusing and sometimes messed up world.

This space as you might have realised is for my own venting. It's where I talk, to myself. To the universe. It's where I don't lie. Much. Chances are you won't get more truth out of me than these few billion pages of angst.

My life isn't that bad. Sometimes. The good parts just usually end up being the blank dates in between the posts you see. So yes, just to practice my math and to cheer myself up a little, the number of posts is inversely proportional to my mental wellbeing. Yes that counts as math with me.

And despite the wry smile on my face and the grin I can imagine on yours, I'm still rather sombre.

I promise you I'm sunny somedays. Stick around. You never know what you may learn.

*hint may or may not be in big black font at the top of the page.