A place for a


What is pity? And a mother’s cruelty

I hate pity. Men say self-pity is bad. So what, suppress it? Judge myself for it? Pretend not to feel it? But shaming does not work that well. And even if I do not express it or if I dissociate from it, I do not become more efficient.

And in all the time I pitied myself and suppressed my self-pity and protested against victimhood while feeling like one, I lacked the simple critical thinking skill of wondering what pity and victimhood actually are.

If they are there, they must serve a purpose, right? But I did not know of it.

Until the fateful day I took a look at the Wikipedia entry.

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Fear of rejection: No, fear of guilt and shame

I never felt like I really feared rejection, the idea seemed pointless to me; thus I refused to believe that I am motivated by fear when I fail to approach girls. Whenever I did, I usually did not feel very bad about being rejected. Especially the beautiful girls that I preferred to approach often had extremely positive attitudes and the rejection felt painless.

But when I look closer, there is a pattern of rejections that irrationally terrified me to the bone. One of those was when the girl that rejected me was of the rather unhappy kind. It left me feeling grossly inadequate. The other, even more painful kind of situation ensued when I felt that the display of my desire made the girl uncomfortable or downright clam up. I felt like hell hath me. It was unbearable to the point where I would have done almost anything to stop the sensation.

My intent was, of course, only to make her dank at the twat, but intent is not everything.

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Ibuprofen killed my sex drive, and other libi-en-dangers

The pain is gone. I wake up after my first sleep for 40 hours. Gone with the pain is my will to focus and my libido. My combination technique doesn’t work. Yes, I had been wishing for the pain to go away.

My great passion had been going on for two weeks until yesterday, when I unwillingly started to scream at the doctor’s who was treating my otitis externa, an inflammation of the outer ear.

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The pain of status and rivalry

I am observing a man and two women at the restaurant. My chest is compressed by an invisible pressure strong enough to make it difficult to breathe. What is this? Why should it be so painful to simply look at people?

My gaze is reciprocated a few times, but never held for an extended period of time. My chest loosens up and I calmly continue my observation: A rather uptight, very properly and boringly clothed man is accompanied by two women; despite his glaring uneasiness, they exaggeratedly laugh at things he says, sometimes conjuring a smug smile on his face. Neither he nor they seem to be honestly enjoying themselves.

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Mor – a new name for butterflies in the stomach

Fucking butterflies in the stomach. What idiot invented that? How do you feel? Butterflies in my stomach. What kind of answer is that? And what if you feel it in your chest? Butterflies in my chest? To me, it does feel nothing like butterflies.

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