If it were not for my male intellect, clouded by my sex drive, I'm quite sure that I could be perfectly content with friendship.

But I am what I am and  cannot hope for anymore.

blahblahblahblahblahblah

 I am sad. 

That is all.

Yeh bro, I feel it.

Upon taking the plunge I realised a moment too late that happiness was not at the bottom of the drop, but high above me upon some unreachable pedestal. At this moment in time it seems unattainable.

Nietzche, I know not of the reason I listened to your deceptively optimistic works. 

I shall now console myself with the works of Schopenhauer. His cynical and pessimistic attitude may not be romantic, but is certainly a little more realistic than the crap Nietzche made me believe.

In the words of Adam Sandler: 

"Love stinks."

Get back.

Nietzche philosophised that man can not have both great pleasure and little disappointment. Both pleasure and pain are intertwined in unfathomable ways, he says.

To derive the most pleasure from life, we must also bear the burden of disappointment, rejection and loss. 

For those of us who fear these things (especially if it is to an extent that it impacts upon our risk taking measures) we will be spared much of the atrocities of love. We will also, however, be ignorant of the many joys of a real relationship.

I am stuck somewhere between these two extremes; skirting the boundaries of risk yet always ending up safe inside my own conservative world.

Why can I not just step off this isolated ledge into what could very well be the happiness I long for?

Yahyahyahyahyahyahay

It is unfair that she is so wonderful and I am so normal. I do not, however, want her to change in any aspect whatsoever. All the change I want needs to come from myself and myself alone. I want to change only so that I can make her happy, so that she too may feel whatever the hell it is I am feeling right now. This is the vicious circle I am trapped in.

I revel in every slight hint of affection she shows me; be it the slightest of smiles, a trivial glance towards me or the far and few occasions that our eyes meet. If only I could feel as great as I do at these moments all the time.

Rejection.

I’m sure she wouldn’t be scared if I told her I liked her, I doubt that she’d even be surprised. Something is holding me back though, and I know what it is: a deep seated fear of rejection. There is nothing worse than being told that your love shall never be fulfilled and shall always remain unrequited.

I do not want this in the slightest.

I am not good at picking up women. period.

I dream of hundreds of ways in which I might win her heart; almost all of which require some sort of event that will more than likely never happen. In the unlikely event that chance will take pity upon me and the two of us shall be thrust upon fertile soils where love may bloom, I know exactly what I will say. Every word,  accent and utterance that comes forth from my lips shall create new bonds between us and I shall transcend this platonic love.

But alas, fate greets me not like an old friend but rather with the manner of a particularly disgruntled parent. I am made to stand upon my own two feet left to my own lackluster wit. Leaning forward, my hand lightly brushes the back of her arm. To extinguish the curiosity that has risen upon her face I simply smile and ask for a ballpoint pen.

I now feel as if I have jumped off the side of a very tall bridge.