It's been a while since I last spent much time here. I stopped contributing to E2 once I realized that I never had much to offer at all. To read my own writeups is humiliating; well, perhaps not that extreme, but it feels similar to finding an abandoned journal from your high school years (you know, when you thought you could ever really be anything,) its pages deteriorating from the sporadic entries, overly ambitious diction; its symbolic importance to you tearing away in large strips, peeling off to show that under that anxiety-wracked, inspired, but inauthentic nihilism, were just helixes of unhip banality and the knowledge that you'd never find the questions to the answers you'll always have.
So you can perhaps understand my initial desire to simply delete the whole account. I can't bring myself to do it though--and I'm not even sure I remember how to. I'm leaving it all unchanged. I'll accept my scarlet letter with the understanding that the self-deception of those years, to wear them blazing crimson on my chest, is preferable to the icy, numbing, and agonizing internal necrosis that begins when you no longer simply lie to yourself, but instead when you become your lies in order to be honest.
Oh, and after I become familiar again with this sometimes exhausting network of thoughts, I could possibly see myself doing a writeup that...oh, damn, wow, so I just noticed a wasp at my window, and me without an epi-pen...that wasp didn't exactly scare me shitless, but it's made me lose my train of thought. I guess that works out well timing-wise, because I think I actually do have to have a BM (yes, I say that...) now.