Insufferably pathetic whininess.

I still wish I had someone to say; and I still wish even more for someone to say it to. It doesn't matter much what I say or to whom I say it, just something. A crumb, a small spark of human comisery. What, co-misery? I'm pretty sure I meant commiseration.

I'm pretty sure about the problem I'm having. You see, I'd really like to have a partner/friend/lover/confidante et cetera, but I'm petrified of the possibility of any new relationship becoming the fucking psychological cluster bomb the last one turned out to be. Fucking crux. Fucking boohoo.

...

I realize right now, though not before now, and certainly not after now, that there are people who love me. I'm very happy about that. No, really. Being loved, even if it's only by some imaginary person, is the most extraordinary, most splendorous experience...

I wish I could love the way I want to love. That is, there are those whom I wish to love the way they wish to be loved, the way I wish to be loved. I wish to be loved and I wish to be loved.

This doesn't mean anything, though it means a whole awful lot to me. I don't know what it is that means a lot to me; perhaps it's the lot of it, or perhaps it's the none of it. No, I think it's the ability to say, to scream what I want, need, despise, need, resent, need, vomit-at, need, need, need.

...

Love

...

You know the beach, the way the waves slap upon the beach. I've circumnavigated this island I've been living on and I've seen all that it has to show. All that it has it soundness, stability, solemnity. There is no beauty in isolation; there is only comfort. What is beauty without someone to share a beauty with? What is life without insanity?

Indeed.