Edit: This post was written more than a month ago, but I completely forgot to publish.
A certain strangeness has come over me in recent days. Temptations have risen and gone. The feelings have turned with the change of the winter wind.
All thoughts of the original post long gone, I'll jostle the subject a bit.
What I most deeply detest and endear: this shall emerge anew to the foreground of my sixteen-year panorama.
Among my deepest fears lie eternal solitude, Alzheimer's("Old Timer's") disease, personal invasion by arachnids, falling, and any medical practice involving a needle.
To start, I hate to feel alone.
In my own home, I frequently lock myself away from house guests and family members alike in an effort to refresh my exhausted soul after a full day of fein and interaction at school, but the latter is only uncontradicting to the previous on the grounds that I already find stable relationships in my family.
I am easily depressive in new settings where I am a complete and utter stranger. If I am in possession of but a single, true friend, I am immediately confident and content with myself and my actions, and my acquaintances are allowed to multiply exponentially.
Not to boast, but I contain a bright mind of great deception to the unaquainted ear. My speech is colloquial, but my mind, Victorian, and moral, medium-rare. When fed with the nutricious delicacies of fine language, I am able to quickly adopt the tongue and tone. Thus, with my precious gifts, I hate to forget anything: my hopes, my vows, my thoughts, sights or smells. All is precious and pure, even the once lustful nightmares of my affected spirit.
In short, I would sooner die than suffer a mindful absense. It's cowardly, but must be acknowledged.
I hate anything with more than six legs. I don't want to see them, I don't want to touch them. God help me if I ever encountered one up close and personal.
The last contains a descrepancy of decision between genetic and self-imposed matters. I honestly can't help my reaction to either heights or needles. With my inexhaustible imagination, simply reading The Contents of the Dead Man's Pocket bids my palms and feet to sweat and the blood drain from my face completely.
Separately, discussing or seeing a needle causes me to cry and shake uncontrollably. I have never been scared by a medical operation save having blood drawn at the age of thirteen, but my cousin has been known to pass out at the sight, and so I take my fear to be genetic.
The supernatural was not listed. This is among the most detestable.
My endearments are much in contrast to the horrors above.
I love simple, honest compliments. If my handiwork is neat, I enjoy being honored for it. Being called "pretty" is nice, and no doubt close to honest, though the one exception to my hatred of flattery lies with the title, "beautiful."
I generally don't approve of pet names.
Also, thanks to my little bro, I've come to know what a "Hershey Squirt" is..
