The little thing Edsel, Fatzi and I recorded managed to turn my mood around. I was on the verge of bingeing over pasta, maybe sleep immediately afterwards, and die a silent death.

And to think I resisted laughing.

Some may say that my life is generally a joyless one. Something in my pair of eyeglasses makes things a little bit grim, a little bit bad for everybody. Could be my fault I can't see through it, that despite the best moments of my life one thing manages to outweigh all of them. I don't know what else will.

"People always misunderstand what they already have understood," I ranted, and there went Anna, working on her paper again. I guess it feels much better if she just said she wasn't available, but the innate positivity in me - a surprise in an otherwise straightforward world - makes me want to think that there's a reason why she's still hanging on, for the past six hours, listening (in a sense) to every observation I've had. Yet I'm now typing this, listening to the six-minute edited recording again, and it doesn't affect me anymore - I'm back to being the usual, depressingly repetitive cynic that the world failed to love.

Call me depressingly predictable. It's another small misunderstanding that caused this. This time I refuse to even hint on any details, but if there's only one thing in the world that I'd despise for the longest time, it's things going very wrongly. Self-centric is an adjective forever attached to my back, but it's perfectly normal for me to want things to go my way. So what if you think otherwise? I steer the ship, you bleeper.

As always there's no use to making a big fuss out of nothing. It's something I agreed on before I started to rant. Insert my plea for honesty, and expect to hear nothing, and probably because nobody's really been honest, to be honest. Who'd want to admit they're wrong anyway? We all just resort to shutting off everything without warning.

Maybe I should've binged on pasta instead. Slept afterwards. Try my best to close both eyes without tears coming out, and then they'd call me and realize that I have left this cruel world. Cruel, merely because nobody really cares, however much they insist on actually caring. Oh, but talk to the hand. I fail to realize that the conversation with Anna somehow still stands...

...or not. She's left for the paper. Perfectly understandable - my self-centric self caused all of these synonyms for pain to come out. Why can't we all just hang on?