Category Archives: Bob Dylan related ramblings
WARNING: This post will probably not be very funny. In fact, this post will not be funny at all. If you want funny, go to Yahoo News. They’re terrible reporters. It’s a hoot.
For those of you who have read this blog before, you have probably detected my slight obsession with Bob Dylan. By slight obsession I mean borderline psychotic feelings of love for him, comparable to that which a mother feels for her child or Hugh Hefner feels for implants.
But as a 23 year old woman who admittedly listened to complete and utter garbage until the age of 18, you may be asking yourself “How Lena did you get from Dashboard Confessional suicide tracks and Nelly remixes to Bob Dylan”? I know. The anticipation is ruining you.
So I thought to myself, what better day to answer this question than Bob Dylan’s 71st birthday.
Here is the true, very unfunny story:
In the fall of 2007 I was a sophomore at a mid-sized college in Pennsylvania; a rural setting settled between two small, somewhat ghetto fabulous cities. Despite this, the college town and campus were relatively safe places for clueless, lightweight 19 year olds such as me to roam alone at all hours of the night and even for the occasional tryst to class.
But just two weeks into the fall semester things drastically changed. On the streets of our small town a student was brutally murdered by a group of non-students visiting a downtown bar. The story went that the student was leaving his brother’s house in town and walking back to the campus, alone, around 2:30am when a group of men he did not know attacked him in a completely random act of violence, beating him to death and leaving him to die on the street.
The crime shook the campus. What always felt like a safe place suddenly felt extremely unsafe. Charges were filed and the men in custody were rung through the legal system with too much leniency in my opinion. In the week following his death, those who chose to pay attention learned a great deal about the student through University newspaper articles and press releases. Apparently he was a cute, 19 year old history major, who wrote poetry, hated pop culture, and loved Bob Dylan.
Reading about this boy, reading his poetry in a book the school published in his memory, made me feel extremely connected to him, despite the fact that we had never met. Every day following his death I read his Facebook wall; the heartbroken posts from friends, family members, his girlfriend, all asking the same questions and mourning the same loss of one person who was victimized by brutality that had nothing to do with him.
On the one week anniversary of his death, word got around that the school was organizing a candlelight vigil for him at the time and site of his death. I was determined to attend and after talking to my roommate she agreed to go along. We left around 2:00 am to walk downtown to the site, after gathering a few more reluctant girls from our dorm reminding them that if this was their brother or sister or friend, they would want as many people as possible to show.
Small groups of students filtered out of their dorms and off campus apartments, dressed in hoodies and pajama bottoms, some holding candles, others only holding back tears. Most of us didn’t know the boy who was killed, but that didn’t seem to matter. At the site there were police barricades, hundreds of students, and soft pools of candlelight filtering through the night air, as we encircled the spot of pavement, still stained with his blood and freshly blotted with tears.
I took a candle from someone passing them out and stood quietly in place. For the distance of the street, students continued in crowds in an act of solidarity I didn’t expect to exist. Some representatives of the University spoke, thanking us for our attendance and offering emotional condolences to the family and friends of the boy.
His brother stepped up and thanked us all saying he never imagined so many people would come. He said his brother was one of a kind, a free-spirit, a loving, creative, energetic force, who believed in the powers of love and imagination. He said a few days earlier, at his brother’s funeral, as they lowered him into the ground they heard a train whistle in the distance and all collectively felt that this was his way of saying goodbye. He said that if there was anything his brother would want it would be for all of us to be kinder to one another, to stop watching TV, to step outside and enjoy the wind and the rain, and read a book, and fall asleep under a tree. And then he said, after a few seconds of silence, “just listen to Bob Dylan.”
I’m not sure why, but I heard this in a very real way. After his sister and his girlfriend cried together, they announced that they were going to play his favorite Bob Dylan song and they asked anyone who knew the song to sing along.
I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back I think it was either “Girl From the North Country” or “Boots of Spanish Leather.” Either way it was the first time I ever heard the song. After it ended, we all returned to our rooms and the warmth of our beds. Days passed and conversations resumed to topics discussed before this tragedy, but I couldn’t forget about the boy who died and I couldn’t forget about his brother’s words to “just listen to Bob Dylan.”
After a few months of Dylan discovery I began to understand and five years later as a passionately enlightened fan I fully do.
Bob Dylan is more than just a musician or Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductee. He is more than the songs played on classic rock stations and the influence for every singer-songwriter with untraditional singing voices. Bob Dylan is a human being who has been able to transcend generations, genders, races, religions, and political ideologies with his unique ability to capture the collective feelings of failure and success in the human experience. His words inspire in his fans to live and to be a certain way that has nothing to do with fulfilling expectations of others or herding with the masses, but rather to be true deep down in the soul of our individualism, to who we are and what we believe in separate from societal pressures. He captures the raw ugliness of human emotion and flaw and makes it something beautiful. Bob Dylan manages through his words and his music to connect so deeply with his fans that at a candlelight vigil to honor an untimely death of a young man, his music is that which is played and his influence is that which is mentioned.
So I’d like to take a moment to wish Bob Dylan a Happy 71st Birthday and remind him that I would still pay to have his babies. Anytime, Bob. Anytime.
The girl who will be funny again tomorrow. Or not. Whatever.
One of the best versions of one of the best Bob Dylan songs EVER
It’s unbelievable the lengths I will go to for this blog. It’s like, I’m the guy in “Oops I did it again” who was so into Britney that he “went down and got it for her” in a surprisingly non-dirty act of romance. But instead of a dude swimming to the bottom of the Atlantic to retrieve a piece of gaudy costume jewelry, I’m a girl who doesn’t have the internet and had to go to a local grocery store to pick up Wi-Fi. So you can see the resemblance.
I moved into my apartment today. So far it’s been a train wreck. Well, not a train wreck. More like a plane landing on the Hudson, only slightly less heroic. Mostly because I have no furniture, but 19 posters of Bob Dylan. I’m making it work.
To give you some perspective on what I’m dealing with here, I have generously included 2 diagrammed pictures of my current living situation:
Ok, so it was a slight exaggeration to say I have NO furniture, but the furniture I do have is barely relevant to survival so really I might as well have not have any.
Nevertheless, this is my life. My internet-less, cable-less, often window-less life, and I am digging it like whoa to be perfectly honest. Now, since the only thing I’ve consumed for the last several hours has been Fanta Orange Juice and pretzel rods, I am going to buy some groceries. Then I’m going to go to Wal-Mart and try not to hang myself. Then I’m going to go back to my apartment and continue tacking flat double-bed sheets to my walls in lieu of tapestries.
Yeah, that’s right. Be jealous…
No one else is
The girl who did NOT have sexual relations with that woman!!!
…to her recollection…
It is January 27 and I still have yet to start any of my New Year’s Resolutions. I’d like to say it’s because I am too busy, which I often feel I am, but since I managed to devote 15 minutes today trying to learn how to finger whistle, and over an hour researching strange facts about cows, my argument is sort of beat to shit, for lack of a better term.
Therefore I have decided to restart 2012 on February 1. I’d like to commemorate 2011 and all its 13 months of glory, with a blog entry depicting its brilliance with photographs taken throughout the year. Since I can’t own an electronic without breaking it in a very dramatic and embarrassing fashion, my cell phone has been my primary photographic tool. Aside from countless pictures of my butt, in various pairs of pants, my cell phone is actually filled with some photographic gems. So I have decided to use a sampling of those and can only hope by the end of this read, family, friends, and internet bullies alike, will still find something endearing about me.
In 2011, my cubicle, like my existence, was a train wreck. While the Ansel Adams’ photography, saliva-scented water bottles, and countless piles of garbage may be only slight windows into my growing psychosis, the off-camera stacks of magazines, drawers filled with oatmeal, and affectionate snapshots of Bob Dylan pasted on pieces of construction paper outlined with heart doodles, show a young woman on the brink of “exhaustion” (I feel you Demi, I feel you).
(also) January 2011
Umm…yeah, so…I was REALLY lonely in 2011. I know locking myself in my apartment, crying while drawing pictures of Bob Dylan didn’t add much to my social life, but its better than getting date raped at a Scranton bar.
So I like, totally wrote this poem. I know. BE Jealous.
Sometimes it snows in Pennsylvania…no big deal. Of course one might assume that if someone were to grow up in Pennsylvania, they would be adequately prepared to deal with this gigantic dump bird shit. However, I am not as bright as this blog so consistently implies, so I had to use a dustpan and an old Swiffer to dig my car out. It was so fetch.
So apparently nothing in life was worth photographing during
I know. Sad. Pathetic. You can feel sorry for me, I get it. I would too. Except I’m lying. I took lots of boring, unbloggable pictures during these months. So let’s just forget they ever existed, k?
I was quite the tortured artist in Tennessee. So tortured, I painted these sunflowers on my wall and drifted into a life of hard drugs and street hopscotch.
This is one Bad Ass Motha-Fucka. Had he a beard, we probably would have been betrothed on the spot, and today I’d be found living under a bridge next to Willie Nelson.
I was like, so important. See that bag of carrot sticks sitting in front of the computer? All mine, baby. All mine. You can look but you can’t touch it. IF you touch it, I’ma start some drama.
And you don’t want NO drama.
No, no, Drama.
No, no, no, no, drama.
I hate the Black-Eyed Peas.
I lived in Tennessee for 4 1/2 months and for 8 weeks I dated a very nice gentleman, we’ll call him Andre. (In respect to “Andre” let me say, he was not as gay as this fictional name would imply. Far from it, if you catch my drift…this is getting weird) Anyway, one day in September Andre took me to a beautiful state park, a few hours into the Tennessee countryside, filled with beautiful waterfalls and vigorous hiking trails. Quite the panty-dropping experience. Or it would have been, had he not suffered several allergy attacks. Upon hiking to the bottom of a waterfall, Andre was overcome with a coughing/sneezing fit, and hacked up this lovely wad of saliva. Enthusiastically entertained by everything, I took a picture with my cell phone, much to the displeasure of Andre who had been trying to overcome his condition for hours to make the trip romantic. While he scoured the rock formations in search of the perfect heart-shaped stone to give me, I took pictures of his spit and made him help me clean up garbage people had left at the bottom of the waterfall. Is it any wonder why I am single?
One of the greatest mysteries of 2011 took place one September morning when I tried to put in my contacts. I walked to the bathroom like any other day, half-dressed and ready to defecate, when I decided to put in my contacts first. I opened the case, anxious to regain my man-made vision, when I saw what appeared to be two globs of toothpaste in lieu of my contacts. I was perplexed. My roommate was gone for the weekend and I had spent the night alone, leaving no room for foul-play. Utilizing the safety precautions learned in high school Chemistry, I jammed my fingers into the unknown substance, anxious to determine what it was. The gritty texture did not feel like toothpaste, nor did it smell like anything that could reduce bad breath. After much deliberation, I decided that my contacts somehow disintegrated overnight, turning back into their liquid form, which is evidently, toothpaste-colored gobbledygook.
During one of my bi-weekly grocery trips, I spotted this painfully obnoxious vehicle. My first instinct was to throw a shopping cart through the window and run away screaming, but I decided taking a picture would be less illegal and unfortunately less awesome.
So, apparently all I did in September was take really stupid pictures, of really stupid things. This is another. While living in Tennessee, my fictional ADD was in high gear. One afternoon I found myself aimlessly driving around the outskirts of Nashville and nearly flipped my car, (by calmly pulling over) when I saw this sign. The Band is probably my favorite band, and the song “Up On Cripple Creek” validates my existence.
Not only is this the 3rd reference to Bob Dylan made in this blog post; as the text of this fake tattoo is a Bob Dylan song title. But it is also quite possibly the lamest picture ever taken in this history of photographic technology. In October I was packing my belongings, readying myself to move back to Pennsylvania. Since I’m the most bad ass 23 year old alive, I thought it’d be totally bitchin’ to draw a fake tattoo on my arm with black liquid eye liner, then take a picture of it to commemorate how cool it was. I almost want to stuff myself in a locker, for this.
Trying to make something love me, that doesn’t, is the tagline of my life. Exhibit A, taking a picture with Molly as she violently squirms out of my arms, desperate to free herself from my overbearing grip. And I had only been home for three days. Where is the love?
I still hate the Black-Eyed Peas
Right next to the organic orange juice, a brown paper bag of meal worms. This is what happens when your mom is a high school biology teacher. Or a fisherman.
In December my stepmother had non-invasive brain surgery that required her head to be restrained with this mask, which highly resembles a Medieval torture device. Needless to say, she was into it. So she showed us her mask and while my head was too fat and sassy to fit, my sister excitedly shoved her face into it, allowing for this Samsung moment.
Yes, my family has problems.
So that was all kinds of fun, huh? No? Screw you.
Bring on 2012…er…again!
The girl who learned today that the average cow produces 25 gallons of saliva each day, while simultaneously bringing sexy back.
Dear Literate Citizens of First World Countries,
The time has come for me to address you. I think it is safe to say I have lost all of the fans/organ donors I once had as result of this blog. It’s been a month and a half since I have posted something new and frankly I don’t blame anyone for jumping ship at my shoddy attempt at blogosphere stardom. I have let myself, my country, and my libido down.
I will not attempt to explain away my neglectful inaction; for there are no words sufficient in definition, or multisyllabic enough in pretentiousness to appease the disillusioned cries of my reader(s). I will instead use a method of defense learned only from experiencing the deeply trenched heartache of an abusive relationship: I will pretend that it never happened.
…So anyway, these past six weeks have been like, so totally, epic. I mean FAIL! What???? Oh no! Like everyone else I seem to have forgotten what those words meant before social media subculture belittled their worth and true definition. Are you lost? Get ready, suckers. I haven’t updated in 42+ days. Not much is going to make sense tonight.
It is November, for which I must say I am pleased. September and October were straight up bitches, headed for the must kill shelter. Here are just a few things that went down:
-I quit my job. Yeah, that’s right. The one I formerly bragged about with my great salary, private office, and increasing self importance. I quit. Why? Because when you live in a nation with a 10% unemployment rate, and you move 900 miles away from home and find a well-paying, professional job in three weeks, the only logical thing to do is quit without finding another one first.
-I left Tennessee and moved back to Pennsylvania. Yeah, that’s right. I threw in the towel on my Southern adventure right in time for winter. Why? Because when you live in one of the warmest regions of the country, the only logical thing to do is leave the everyday sunshine of a 70 degree fall
climate and move back to the north; the place responsible for your semi-annual contraction of bronchitis and daily weather-related depression. My tongue sticks to everything during a Pennsylvania winter and not just because I’m promiscuous, wink, wink ;)…sizzle.
-I found God in Kentucky. Yeah, that’s right. God resides in Kentucky and let me tell you, he is busy at work. Not only did he arrange to have several billboards of the Ten Commandments erected along the h
ighway, but like the great debater he is, also followed up with a reminder of what is to come if we do not follow said commands with 10×10 billboard images of Hell and a “Welcome to Ohio” sign.
-I drove through Ohio. Yeah, that’s right. ALL of Ohio. First night I stayed in Cincinnati. Oh, Cincy. What can be said about thee? Cincinnati is like my waist: bigger than you would expect, but not something anyone is going to enjoy. Next stop Cleveland. For those of you who are not well-versed on Ohio geography, Cincinnati is in the southwestern corner of Ohio, directly diagonal to Cleveland in the northeastern part of the state. I had to drive five depressing, rainy, hours through Ohio, because I insisted on visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Now when I say I “insisted” I am lying. I didn’t insist. There was no one to insist to! I was alone, as I often am in life, love, and the bedroom…. FAIL! Lolz. What? Anyway. I arrived at the Hall o’ Fame, or “the hall” as the locals call it (no locals call it that). I spent 3 ½ hours there only to find an entire hallway dedicated to Jimi Hendrix and not a single window display for Bob Dylan. I am still composing a strongly worded letter to this so-called “establishment,” hoping to disembowel them of their title. Now don’t get me wrong, I like Jimi Hendrix. His seven minute career was very impressive. But Bob Dylan has penetrated the holes in my heart, impregnating my soul with his words. No person has ever loved another as much as I love him, not even Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries. Fail!
-I have started to wear leggings, tights, or as I like to refer to them “fat highlighters.” Yeah, that’s right. I am “trendy.” However, before the unfashionable tar and feathering occurs, let me explain. I like to wear dresses. I wear them all the time, along with pearls, leopard print shoes, and 74 coats of mascara, so I can walk around pretending I’m a fat Edie Sedgwick. But during the winter months, my pasty legs can’t handle the elements. So I did the only logical thing – bought black tights! After all, nothing is more Edie than black tights, aside from highly toxic amphetamines and Lou Reed’s penis; both of which I am yearning to acquire.
As for the other 42+ days I was not writing, I can only account for some of them with the following activities:
-30 hours spent at Occupy Nashville
-2 hours spent watching “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding.”
-14 hours spent watching reruns of “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding.”
-Undocumented amount of hours spent smoking hallucinogen
-15 hours driving to Pennsylvania
-30 minutes eating a gas station taco salad in Cleveland.
-1 ½ hours a day watching Judge Judy with my mother.
-Infinite amount of hours regretting my TV watching and wondering how anyone could find me lovable.
But now that it is November, things are bound to change. I am applying to graduate school for next fall, have joined a gym, have rejoined the local writer’s group I rely on as my sole social outlet, am attempting to finish my novel before the year’s end, and spend my afternoon’s crying to reruns of One Tree Hill.
Still unbalanced, still writing, still the girl with the blog.
The girl with the blog that is never updated because the girl happens to be a lazy a**hole.
At 22 years old with one ex husband and several appalling attempts at romance under my love handles, I have decided my pursuits for happiness need to be better focused. For that reason I have concocted a list of the six characteristics necessary in my next semi-serious, emotionally sadistic relationship.
Because I am incapable of committing to anything other than my credit union, I think it wise to look at this list not so much as a guide to eternal happiness, but as a guide to the brief happiness I will experience when I foolishly divulge in a relationship that will most definitely end up in the shitter.
I digress. Here we go.
1. Crazy beard – There are two physical characteristics that make me want to give up wearing underwear entirely: nice eyes and a wild, unruly beard. Since my preference in male eye color changes more often than my love/hate relationship with Anne Hathaway, I am going to count my fetish for excessive facial hair as my one physical requirement. Some (lesbian) women hate facial hair of any kind. I however am a facial hair enthusiast. I am not happy unless a man has an unmanageable, unkempt, mountain man, beard. Beards are sexy in a “I’m too busy hunting grizzlies and chopping firewood to shave my chiseled jaw” kind of way. I want it. I need it.
2. He needs to have his priorities straight. A sample list should look something like this:
1. Bob Dylan
3. Gas station cappuccinos
My next miserably, drawn out relationship should begin with our mutual obsession with Bob Dylan and fulfilling our sick need to bring him up at least seven times a day. I want him to cancel plans with me because he is going to the same Bob Dylan show he didn’t realize I already had tickets for. I want him to use Bob Dylan lyrics in conversation more often than his own thoughts, because if he’s truly a Bob Dylan fan, he knows that no matter what he wants to say, Bob Dylan has said it better.
After Bob Dylan I am flexible.
J/k. Obviously myself and caffeinated beverages need to come before his family, friends, and dignity.
3. A varied vocabulary: I want him to use words like “vestibule,” “sanctimonious” and “pronk” in daily conversation, and preferably in the same sentence.
Example. The Neo Nazi prayer group that met in the dusty cobweb strewn vestibule inspired sanctimonious feelings in the pronks and dregs in attendance.
Bam. Schooled. Just like that.
4. A wide collection of plaid shirts – I’m not sure where the current trends of graphic tees and argile sweater vests came from or why anyone finds it appealing, but I do know one thing for sure. Nothing gets my non-steely thighs to open faster than a guy in plaid. Plaid is hot. A guy in plaid can hike for four days without a shower and still look delicious. Plaid is sexy. Plaid will get you laid by this chick, delusional about the powers of patterned clothing.
5. The ability to identify countries like Cameroon and Tajikistan on a map:
Why? Because I can’t and he needs to bring something to the relationship.
Hahahahhaha, J/K, I can. I’m very familiar with South American geography.
6. An appreciation for my translucent skin tone, bloated physique and misusage of the word “intense”:
I am a pasty, borderline albino, with a tendency to misuse words that begin with vowels. My permanent water retention, best depicted in my pants size, needs to be cherished and appreciated. I need a Cappuccino-drinking, plaid-wearing, well-spoken, Bob Dylan fan, with an excellent sense of direction and a disorderly beard, who is attracted to the type of girl that could live six weeks off of nothing but her own body fat and her uncanny ability to entertain herself.
So…yeah. There you have it.
If any of you reading know of a man that meets these requirements, please let him know that I am single and anxious to enter into a parasitic romance that will no doubt result in a costly divorce and a mutual, life-long loathing for one another and all members of the opposite gender.
The girl with high expectations and overgrown eyebrows.
Today is the best day of my life. It marks the anniversary of an event that would result in the most intense, passionate, wild-eyed, manic depressive sort of love I would never actually experience in life.
Today is Bob Dylan’s 70th birthday.
In the past week, amateurish publications like Time, Newsweek, and Rolling Stone have demonstrated their ignorance of Bob Dylan. They pretend to understand the clout of his God-like perfection when “honoring” him with their long-winded articles about his “prophetic lyrical genius” and “legendary presence” in the music industry.
They are fools.
Naïve in their feeble attempts to encompass Bob Dylan.
Pathetic in their ignorance of the fact that no matter how many pages and words they use to write a tribute to him, they will fail. Yes, fail to do him justice. You want to know why?
Because I am in love with Bob Dylan.
None of them understand him the way I do! None of them feel their heart flutter when they overhear a co-worker mention her grandson Dylan and his recurring toe fungus. None of them spent hours researching home made bomb recipes when Nick Jonas said that Bob Dylan can’t sing on national television. They do not know my Bobbykins, and they do not know love the way that I do.
Some of you – many of you – most of you are probably checking Craigslist Classifieds and Casual Encounters right now for a used but sanitary straight jacket to put me in. You will tell me I am sick, perverted, psychologically disturbed for wanting to bone a 70 year old man. But, there is a select population that will understand the intensity I feel in my heart and in my loins. Which brings me to our next category:
People who are victims of intense, unrequited, celebrity love and those who are not.
Many consider this sort of severe infatuation a cute phase that a young girl goes through during a segmented period of her life. A time when no real boy wants her and the only way she can feel emotionally and sexually satisfied is by making out with the back of her hand and imagining David Cassidy’s lips on hers. I am here to tell you, that is just a lie.
Ladies and gentlemen, stalker-like celebrity obsession is a prevalent part of regular adult life. Look around you and I guarantee you will find at least one, highly functioning adult who lives among the rest of us, struggling with this debilitating frustration of the heart.
This is not something a person simply “grows out” of! If anything it becomes worse overtime. What starts as an 11 year old girl’s cute habit of doodling Mrs. Justin Bieber all over her underwear, will turn into a 17 year old girl getting her boyfriend Sid’s name tattooed on her nether regions. This is a serious matter the divides the population of the world, person by delusional person.
Take a look at this future “16 and Pregnant” star!
Of course, not all individuals will experience such emotional turmoil. I am the only one of
my siblings who has ever experienced this. For years
I felt alone… scared…helpless in my pursuit of real, live, human love that could replace the feelings I have for my little Bobsters. It wasn’t until I saw this chick, a desperate, pathetic excuse for a human being, sobbing over infamous American Idol contestant, Sanjaya, that I realized I am not alone.
Recent studies by a team of vague and unspecified researchers indicate that 1 in 5 adults suffer from what is known as Compulsive Celebrity Infatuation Disorder (CCID). Symptoms include manic and irrational behavior (as seen above), isolation from friends and family members who do not appreciate or understand the depth of your pain, and the occasional loss of bowels, though that has yet to be backed by any legitimate research.
As a long time sufferer of CCID, I have struggled with my attempts to connect with those who have not been cursed with this condition. I have joined bowling leagues, established knitting circles, and participated in Calligraphy workshops, only to be ridiculed and looked down upon by the other sort. The sort that mocks, judges, and belittles my love. The sort who has never, and will never experience this kind of duress.
So today I ask all CCID sufferers to stand tall and stand proud. YOU ARE NOT ALONE! Remember, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. You are one blog comment away from a potentially normal life full of unhealthy, emotionally damaging relationships.*
Today is not only the most important day in human history.
But it is also the first day, of the rest of your life.
I love you all, you sick, twisted, psycho freaks.
The girl you want to be reincarnated as
*OKAY…let’s be honest. Commenting on this blog won’t help you. You will always be a puss-filled sore on the lip of society whose pathetic obsession with the unattainable will continue to be mocked and disparaged for years to come. You are probably better off sticking with your sick delusions than facing the fact that you are entirely undesirable and no one loves you. Just so we have that clear.
I still appreciate comments though!