Adonis Diaries

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Is falling in love, the ultimate in masochism?

« L’amour est masochiste.

Ces cris, ces plaintes, ces douces alarmes, cet état d’angoisse des amants, cet état d’attente, cette souffrance latente, sous-entendue, à peine exprimée,

Ces mille inquiétudes au sujet de l’absence de l’être aimé, cette fuite du temps, ces susceptibilités, ces sautes d’humeur,

Ces rêvasseries, ces enfantillages, cette torture morale où la vanité et l’amour-propre sont en jeu, l’honneur, l’éducation, la pudeur,

Ces hauts et ces bas du tonus nerveux, ces écarts de l’imagination, ce fétichisme, cette précision cruelle des sens qui fouaillent et qui fouillent,

Cette chute, cette prostration, cette abdication, cet avilissement, cette perte et cette reprise perpétuelle de la personnalité, ces bégaiements, ces mots, ces phrases, cet emploi du diminutif, cette familiarité,

Ces hésitations dans les attouchements, ce tremblement épileptique, ces rechutes successives et multipliées, cette passion de plus en plus troublée, orageuse et dont les ravages vont progressant, jusqu’à la complète inhibition,

La complète annihilation de l’âme, jusqu’à l’atonie des sens, jusqu’à l’épuisement de la moelle, au vide du cerveau, jusqu’à la sécheresse du cœur, ce besoin d’anéantissement, de destruction, de mutilation, ce besoin d’effusion, d’adoration, de mysticisme,

Cet inassouvissement qui a recours à l’hyperirritabilité des muqueuses, aux errances du goût, aux désordres vaso-moteurs ou périphériques et qui fait appel à la jalousie et à la vengeance, aux crimes, aux mensonges, aux trahisons, cette idolâtrie, cette mélancolie incurable, cette apathie,

Cette profonde misère morale, ce doute définitif et navrant, ce désespoir, tous ces stigmates ne sont-ils point les symptômes mêmes de l’amour d’après lesquels on peut diagnostiquer, puis tracer d’une main sûre le tableau clinique du masochisme ? »

Blaise Cendrars – Moravagine


Sexuality, reported actions, and the body: A refutation

What do you call a man who exposes himself to women for pleasure?

A philosophy professor, of course. Why does this joke work?

Because sexual harassment is so common in academic philosophy. But also because of the tension between the image of the lewd “flasher” (a certain type of harasser) and that of the staid professor.

When you think about it, most times that you are naked it’s not even about sex: when you bathe, dress, or are examined by the doctor, for example.

The ancient Greeks used to wrestle naked and artists still use naked models.

Indeed, without the body, human culture would not exist.

So really the body is very respectable and vital to human flourishing. We are a corporeal species.

fauxphilnews,  a guest post of by Clinton McGruff, had this to say in response to recent events on “Sexuality, reported actions, and the body: A refutation”

I have in fact written a whole book about the body, Pretension, in which its ubiquity is noted and celebrated.

I even have a cult centering on the body, described in this blog. I have given a semester-long seminar discussing the body and displays related to it.

I now tend to use nudity in the wide-ranging manner just outlined, sometimes with humorous intent.

Suppose now a professor P, well conversant in the above points, slyly exposes himself to his graduate student, who is conversant. The astute student, suitably primed, responds after a moment by saying: “Um… you’re not trying to proposition me, right?” Professor P replies: “You are clearly a clever student—I can’t trick you. That is exactly the response I was looking for!” They then laugh nervously together. (I don’t see the humor in cliche’ responses)

Academics like mind games.

But suppose a naïve onlooker, seeing this witty display, jumps to the conclusion that the nudity is indicative of something sexual. He then reports the act of Professor P as follows: “Professor P propositioned his student.”

He has failed to see the joke and has no knowledge of the intellectual background of the display he is trying so ineptly to report. He clearly misreports what Professor P did, missing both the content and the humor.

We might accurately describe P’s action as follows: P exposed himself to his student. Completely innocent.

These reflections take care of certain false allegations that have been made about me recently (graduate students are not what they used to be).

One has a duty to take all aspects of the situation into account and not indulge in rash descriptions.

And one should also not underestimate the sophistication of the flasher.

Note 1: Does anyone has a taxonomy for sex offenses?

Note 2: Why most elder people, responding to local anesthesia after a surgery, need to take off their hospital gown and every syringes attached to their body? They wouldn’t mind removing the skin too.

Tidbits and notes posted on FB and Twitter. Part 198

Note: I take notes of books I read and comment on events and edit sentences that fit my style. I pa attention to researched documentaries and serious links I receive. The page is long and growing like crazy, and the sections I post contains a month-old events that are worth refreshing your memory.

Obama was awarded Peace Nobel for his “good intentions to peace“. Wars are worse after 8 years. Time to revert to facts on the ground. Not likely to do same mistake with Donald Trump

Sexual abuses are pretty common everywhere around the world. In many societies, the abuses are not made public for the sake of Honor in the communities, and much less taken to court. In India, occasionally, the community orders a gang raping ritual to salvage the community honor.

Commonly, it is the victim of sexual abuse who carries the brunt of the burden to “prove” the case, given that the victim is willing to have her life-style and history (sexual and other crimes) divulged and thoroughly cross-examined by the defense lawyers…

Why family violence and of the very serious kinds, like beating, bruising, breaking of bones, raping… get a slap on the wrist on the ground of “family matters” and no one has to interfere and the cases are hushed up and not disseminated by the media?

It is about time that these “sexual abuses” allegations be defined operationally, every term of the dozens of innuendos related to sexual abusesharassment, molestation and their various synonyms.

The need for an exhaustive taxonomy of “Family Violence” is becoming an urgent matter, and sex abuses to be a subcategory. Factors like level of seriousness of the abuse (physically, mentally, socially, legally), frequency and duration of the abuse, idiosyncrasy of the community…

If 90% of all liability cases (work related safety and health, car accidents, business related charges…) are settled out of court, why should sexual abuses Not be at the negotiation table by sex “forensic experts“?

Teams of Medical professionals, jurists, social workers, politicians, judges and representatives of communities… must be given the task of operationally defining the kinds of sexual abuses, such as frequency, duration, long-term consequences, cost of trials and recovery, community idiosyncrasies… and admitting the opinions of Sex forensic experts in court

The expert opinions of Sex forensic experts, and who is knowledgeable in a particular community idiosyncrasies need to be recognized in court to save the victims from public harassment, settle 90% of cases out of court, and cut court costs

Bass mou7akaat Red Cross activities, chemical bomb, atomic bomb, white helmet faked videos… yalleh biyet kharraj min Johannam al ard, ma ello jalad tefnissaat johannam al aakherat

Is Lebanon internal force Officer Khashmi Houshaymeh sleeping well? Saf3at hal 3ameed la mouwaten youtaleb bi 7okkou, min 3awaared 7okm al militia. E3laan kouwa al amen ma bi shaje3 le radd al saf3a

© Eve@w. posted this Sept. 3, 2013
I am not a girl of half passion.
I dive in the void as birds that can’t fly
I fell in love and I suffered.
I didn’t despise enough…
Hate was never my master.
I preferred the beating to the blows.
I fell a thousand times.
Only to getting up one more time.
When we learn to walk, this is how we do.
We advance.
This is a long road.
I chose the obsessions: They invade you.
It is soft and round in the stomach.
It is being built and palpitates.
I would like to be able to think in cycles.
I have never appreciated the lukewarm behaviors.
It is erased.
The red heat ravages all on its passage.
It whirls toward the sky.
I don’t like the halves: I want all.
I want it complete.
I want in grand.
I can balance.
I have forgotten my nets

What Sleeping With Married Men Taught Me About Infidelity

Why a divorced 49 woman seeks sex with married men?

I’m not sure it’s possible to justify my liaisons with married men, but what I learned from having them warrants discussion.

Not between the wives and me, though I would be interested to hear their side. No, this discussion should happen between wives and husbands, annually, the way we inspect the tire tread on the family car to avoid accidents.

A few years ago, while living in London, I dated married men for companionship while I processed the grief of being newly divorced.

I hadn’t sought out married men specifically. When I created a profile on Tinder and OkCupid, saying I was looking for no-strings-attached encounters, plenty of single men messaged me and I got together with several of them. But many married men messaged me too.

After being married for 23 years, I wanted sex but not a relationship. This is dicey because you can’t always control emotional attachments when body chemicals mix, but with the married men I guessed that the fact that they had wives, children and mortgages would keep them from going overboard with their affections.

And I was right. They didn’t get overly attached, and neither did I. We were safe bets for each other.

I was careful about the men I met. I wanted to make sure they had no interest in leaving their wives or otherwise threatening all they had built together. In a couple of cases, the men I met were married to women who had become disabled and could no longer be sexual, but the husbands remained devoted to them

All told I communicated with maybe a dozen men during that time in my life, and had sex with fewer than half. Others I texted or talked with, which sometimes felt nearly as intimate.

Before I met each man I would ask: “Why are you doing this?” I wanted assurance that all he desired was sex.

What surprised me was that these husbands weren’t looking to have more sex. They were looking to have any sex.

I met one man whose wife had implicitly consented to her husband having a lover because she was no longer interested in sex, at all. They both, to some degree, got what they needed without having to give up what they wanted.

But the other husbands I met would have preferred to be having sex with their wives. For whatever reason, that wasn’t happening.

I know what it feels like to go off sex, and I know what it’s like to want more than my partner. It’s also a tall order to have sex with the same person for more years than our ancestors ever hoped to live. Then, at menopause, a woman’s hormones suddenly drop and her desire can wane.

At 49, I was just about there myself, and terrified of losing my desire for sex. Men don’t have this drastic change. So we have an imbalance, an elephant-size problem, so burdensome and shameful we can scarcely muster the strength to talk about it. (Many men do Not necessarily want intercourse, just feeling cuddled and warm in pretty women embraces, so that they can go out together, bras dessus, bras dessous, and have fun)

Maybe the reason some wives aren’t having sex with their husbands is because, as women age, we long for a different kind of sex. I know I did, which is what led me down this path of illicit encounters. After all, nearly as many women are initiating affairs as men.

If you read the work of Esther Perel, the author of the recently published book “State of Affairs,” you’ll learn that, for many wives, sex outside of marriage is their way of breaking free from being the responsible spouses and mothers they have to be at home. Married sex, for them, often feels obligatory. An affair is adventure.

Meanwhile, the husbands I spent time with would have been fine with obligatory sex. For them, adventure wasn’t the main reason for their adultery.

The first time I saw my favorite married man pick up his pint of beer, the sleeve of his well-tailored suit pulled back from his wrist to reveal a geometric kaleidoscope of tattoos. He was cleanshaven and well mannered with a little rebel yell underneath. The night I saw the full canvas of his tattoo masterpiece, we drank prosecco, listened to ’80s music and, yes, had sex. We also talked.

I asked him: “What if you said to your wife, ‘Look, I love you and the kids but I need sex in my life. Can I just have the occasional fling or a casual affair?’”

He sighed. “I don’t want to hurt her,” he said. “She’s been out of the work force for 10 years, raising our kids and trying to figure out what she wants to do with her life. If I asked her that kind of question, it would kill her.”

“So you don’t want to hurt her, but you lie to her instead. Personally, I’d rather know.”

Well, maybe I would rather know. My own marriage had not broken up over an affair so I couldn’t easily put myself in her position.

It’s not necessarily a lie if you don’t confess the truth,” he said. “It’s kinder to stay silent.” (Thus, the Silent Majority don’t feel they are lying to anyone?)

“I’m just saying I couldn’t do that. I don’t want to be afraid of talking honestly about my sex life with the man I’m married to, and that includes being able to at least raise the subject of sex outside of marriage.”

“Good luck with that!” he said.

“We go into marriage assuming we’ll be monogamous,” I said, “but then we get restless. We don’t want to split up, but we need to feel more sexually alive. Why break up the family if we could just accept the occasional affair?”

He laughed. “How about we stop talking about it before this affair stops being fun?” (This is a case when women have sex as a preamble to interrogating their partners. In few instances, it is the way around for men)

I never convinced any husband that he could be honest about what he was doing. But they were mostly good-natured about it, like a patient father responding to a child who keeps asking, “Why, why, why?”

Maybe I was being too pragmatic about issues that are loaded with guilt, resentment and fear. (As in all issues?)

After all, it’s far easier to talk theoretically about marriage than to navigate it.

But my attitude is that if my spouse were to need something I couldn’t give him, I wouldn’t keep him from getting it elsewhere, as long as he did so in a way that didn’t endanger our family. (A convoluted sentence that obscure its meaning)

I suppose I would hope his needs would involve fishing trips or beers with friends. But sex is basic.

Physical intimacy with other human beings is essential to our health and well-being. So how do we deny such a need to the one we care about most? If our primary relationship nourishes and stabilizes us but lacks intimacy, we shouldn’t have to destroy our marriage to get that intimacy somewhere else. Should we? (if we state it that way that sex is basic)

I didn’t have a full-on affair with the tattooed husband. We slept together maybe four times over a few years. More often we talked on the phone. I never felt possessive, just curious and happy to be in his company.

After our second night together, though, I could tell this was about more than sex for him; he was desperate for affection. He said he wanted to be close to his wife but couldn’t because they were unable to get past their fundamental disconnect: lack of sex, which led to a lack of closeness, which made sex even less likely and then turned into resentment and blame. (the contentment after sex may last a day, but the exacerbation deepens later on)

We all go through phases of wanting it and not wanting it. I doubt most women avoid having sex with their husbands because they lack physical desire in general; we are simply more complex sexual animals.

Which is why men can get an erection from a pill but there’s no way to medically induce arousal and desire in women. (Not sure about that statement. Men have practically no physical sexual arousal places, but when a pretty woman tells him, pretty much directly, “I want you”, his brain execute what is demanded from him)

I am not saying the answer is non-monogamy, which can be rife with risks and unintended entanglements. I believe the answer is honesty and dialogue, no matter how frightening. (Dialogue with a woman is troublesome and fraught with traps?)

Lack of sex in marriage is common, and it shouldn’t lead to shame and silence. By the same token, an affair doesn’t have to lead to the end of a marriage. What if an affair — or, ideally, simply the urge to have one — can be the beginning of a necessary conversation about sex and intimacy? (Excellent with outside companions)

What these husbands couldn’t do was have the difficult discussion with their wives that would force them to tackle the issues at the root of their cheating. (Just a reminder that psychoanalysis is a fraudulent “subjective” science)

They tried to convince me they were being kind by keeping their affairs secret. They seemed to have convinced themselves. But deception and lying are ultimately corrosive, not kind. (To oneself, but Not the relationship)

In the end, I had to wonder if what these men couldn’t face was something else altogether: hearing why their wives no longer wanted to have sex with them. (Not clear. We need to confess with a stranger, and thus we select someone that has more compassion and expertise in life to comprehend our behaviors? Or to clarify what we are afraid of?)

It’s much easier, after all, to set up an account on Tinder.

“Toutes les lettres d’amour sont ridicules”

Note:  Attached a video in 3 languages, including Portuguese (superbement) par Maria de Medeiros

By Gerard Dappelo, Feb, 15, 2018

Elles ne seraient pas des lettres d’amour si elles n’étaient pas Ridicules.
Moi aussi en mon temps j’ai écrit des lettres d’amour,
Comme les autres Ridicules.
Les lettres d’amour, si amour il y a,
Sont fatalement Ridicules.
Mais, tout bien compté,
Il n’y a guère que ceux qui jamais
N’ont écrit de lettres d’amour Qui sont
Ah, retrouver le temps où j’écrivais
A mon insu Des lettres d’amour
Ridicules …
La vérité c’est qu’aujourd’hui
Ce sont mes souvenirs
De ces lettres d’amour Qui sont
(Tous les mots malaisément accentués, (proparoxytoniques*)
Comme les sentiments excessivement singuliers (paroxystiques)
Sont naturellement
Álvaro de Campos, in “Poemas” . Hétéronyme de Fernando Pessoa

Sur Internet, il est facile de trouver des modèles tout prêts de lettres d’amour

Naturellement, elles sont ridicules. Parfois très ridicules !
Trois extraits :

En te voyant, mon cœur s’est emballé comme un moteur de course…

  • De t’avoir touché, mes mains tremblent comme des ailes de papillon de nuit dans la brise du soir…
  • Ma respiration est coupée, j’étouffe, je meurs, j’agonise. Un mot de toi et je ressuscite…

De beaux SMS anonymes sur le compte Instagram “Amours solitaires”

  • Si tu savais à quel point je t’aime, tu t’enfuirais
  • Déshabille-toi, j’ai à te parler.

Sur le site , des lettres d’amour de grands auteurs

Ridicules ? A vous d’en juger.
· Benjamin Constant à Anna Lindsay 1800. 
Je vous verrai demain, mais je veux vous écrire. Je veux arrêter ces moments fugitifs qui se termineront par ma perte. Je vous écris d’une main tremblante, respirant à peine et le front couvert de sueur. 
· Camille Claudel à Auguste Rodin 1886
Je suis bien fâchée d’apprendre que vous êtes encore malade. Je suis sûre que vous avez encore fait des excès de nourriture dans vos maudits dîners, avec le maudit monde que je déteste, qui vous prend votre santé et qui ne vous rend rien.
· François Mauriac à Jeanne Lafon 1912
Autrefois, ivre de mes petits succès, dévoré d’orgueil, je vous eusse fait souffrir. Aujourd’hui, blessé par la vie, je me réfugie en vous. Je ne vis que de votre tendresse. Toute autre femme me paraît inexistante. Je vous aime.
· Juliette Drouet à Victor Hugo 1864
Bonjour, petit oiseau, bonjour et merci, porte ce baiser à mon Toto et dis-lui de venir tout de suite me voir et que je l’adore.
· Chateaubriand à Léontine de Villeneuve 1828
Mais si vous vous avisez d’aimer quelqu’un et de l’épouser, ma tête grise se présentera à vous la nuit, comme la tête de Méduse, et je partirai avec tous mes rhumatismes pour vous étrangler.
· Voltaire à Madame Denis 1745
Je vous embrasse mille fois. Mon âme embrasse la vôtre, mon vit et mon cœur sont amoureux de vous. J’embrasse votre gentil cul et votre adorable personne.
Petite Ophélinha,
Comme je ne voudrais pas que vous disiez que je ne vous ai pas écrit, parce que je ne vous ai effectivement pas écrit, je vous écris.
Ce ne sera pas seulement une ligne, comme je vous l’ai promis, mais ce ne seront pas plusieurs non plus.
Je suis malade, en grande partie en raison d’une série de préoccupations et de contrariétés que j’ai eues hier.
Si vous ne voulez pas croire que je suis malade, évidemment vous ne le croirez pas.
Mais je vous prie de ne pas me dire que vous ne me croyez pas.
Il me suffit déjà d’être malade : il n’est pas nécessaire en plus que vous en doutiez ou que vous me demandiez des comptes sur ma santé comme si elle dépendait de ma volonté ou que je sois obligé de rendre des comptes à quelqu’un de quoi que ce soit.
Voilà ce que j’avais à vous dire et, par hasard, c’est la vérité. Adieu, petite Ophélia. Dormez, mangez et ne perdez pas trop de poids.
Et le texte portugais :

Ophelinha pequena:
Como não quero que diga que eu não lhe escrevi, por efectivamente não ter escrito, estou escrevendo. Não será uma linha, como prometi, mas não serão muitas. Estou doente, principalmente por causa da série de preocupações e arrelias que tive ontem. Se não quer acreditar que estou doente, evidentemente não acreditará. Mas peço o favor de me não dizer que não acredita. Bem me basta estar doente; não é preciso ainda vir duvidar disso, ou pedir-me contas da minha saúde como se estivesse na minha vontade, ou eu tivesse obrigação de dar contas a alguém de qualquer coisa.

Ora aí tem, e, por acaso é a verdade. Adeus, Ophelinha. Durma e coma, e não perca gramas.
· George Sand à Alfred Musset: une lettre qui se lit en sautant un vers sur deux… (cette pudeur serait-elle ridicule ?)
Je suis très émue de vous dire que j’ai bien compris l’autre soir que vous aviez toujours une envie folle de me faire danser.
Je garde le souvenir de votre baiser et je voudrais bien que ce soit là une preuve que je puisse être aimée
par vous.
Je suis prête à vous montrer mon affection toute désintéressée et sans calcul, et si vous voulez me voir aussi
vous dévoiler sans artifice mon âme toute nue, venez me faire une visite.
Nous causerons en amis, franchement.
Je vous prouverai que je suis la femme sincère, capable de vous offrir l’affection la plus profonde comme la plus étroite
en amitié, en un mot la meilleure preuve dont vous puissiez rêver, puisque votre âme est libre.
Pensez que la solitude où j’habite est bien longue, bien dure et souvent difficile.
Ainsi en y songeant j’ai l’âme grosse.
Accourrez donc vite et venez me la
faire oublier par l’amour où je veux me mettre.
· François Mitterrand à Anne Pingeot
Je ne vous ai pas dit mon secret:
Je ressemble à un coquillage de façon si troublante
Qu’on me prend pour un coquillage.
On me pousse du pied.
On me jette à la mer.
On me garde dans la poche.
On m’ajoute au décor, sur un rayon de livres.
Bref, on me traite en objet inutile.
Il arrive pourtant qu’un enfant me ramasse, me regarde et m’aime.
Et quand on m’aime,
Apprenez-le à tout hasard,
C’est comme si tous les océans du monde, tous les ciels, tous les
continents se donnaient rendez-vous.
Où ?
J’allais écrire: dans mon cœur. Dans mon cœur ?
Ridicules ces lettres ?…
Mais si elles ne l’étaient pas, cela prouverait, selon Pessoa, que l’amour n’est pas là….
Connaissez-vous cette poésie du poète portugais Fernando Pessoa ? En portugais “Todas as cartas de amor são ridículas”

Dans cette vidéo, la voici dite en trois langues (superbement) par Maria de Medeiros

En portugais :

Todas as cartas de amor são


Não seriam cartas de amor se não fossem
Também escrevi em meu tempo cartas de amor,
Como as outras,
As cartas de amor, se há amor,
Têm de ser
Mas, afinal,
Só as criaturas que nunca escreveram
Cartas de amor
É que são
Quem me dera no tempo em que escrevia
Sem dar por isso
Cartas de amor
A verdade é que hoje
As minhas memórias
Dessas cartas de amor
É que são
(Todas as palavras esdrúxulas,
Como os sentimentos esdrúxulos,
São naturalmente
Álvaro de Campos, in “Poemas” . Heterónimo de Fernando Pessoa 

La voici dite par Maria Bethania, avec son bel accent brésilien :

(*) Proparoxytonique :

s’applique à un mot dont l’accent tonique appuie sur l’antépénultième syllabe (ce qui constitue une exception dans une langue comme le portugais où il est le plus souvent marqué sur l’avant-dernière). Notons que l’adjectif portugais esdrúxulo qui signifie proparoxytonique porte justement l’accent tonique sur la syllabe drú. Ce mot est donc autoréférent.
Sous la plume de Pessoa, s’appliquant aux mots ou aux sentiments, l’adjectif esdrúxulo peut s’interpréter comme saugrenu.




A few stories of regret?

There was a French girl student in my class of Physics/Chemistry at the university. We spent 2 years in that program and I don’t recall I have ever talked to her.

She was slim, slightly red-headed, hair cut a la garcon, rather flat-chested and elegant in her sober attire and wore the same flat shoes. I think she was pretty. It would have taken a forceful determination from any girl then to take the initiative and lead me to utter a few sentences.

Another regret. She occasionally paid her grandmother visits, from the other part of the continent. I occasionally wrote her letters in the name of her mentally handicapped grand mother.

One of the letter included a convoluted sentence that she picked up as a confession of love. And it was.
A couple of weeks later she showed up. She went jogging and rubbed her feet with lotion. She then asked me to go for a walk. She wanted a verbal confirmation.

I was in a rot with my PhD dissertation and lacked the spirit for such kinds of conversation. I couldn’t master enough craziness to blurt out: ” I find you a lovely, natural and compassionate woman. Take me with you…”
I didn’t see her again: I moved out to another old lady house whose son wanted someone to live with.

Another regret. It was winter of 1976. A Friday, and about 8:30 pm.  Alone, I am to watch a foreign movie, shown by the University Film Club at the Microbiology department.

She showed up with her girlfriend. She is blonde, blue/green eyed, not tall, not skinny.For my candid eyes, just the perfect beauty. I cowered. I should have made haste, join her, and say: “Fair lady, have a good look at my face.

A couple of days later, returning from the library at midnight, I saw her “studying” with my roommate. I had to piss badly and as I emerged, she was gone.

Another regret: When I first saw her I was mesmerized. She was wearing boots and a white shirt and looked gorgeous and stunning. I had to meet her in West Hollywood to convey her sister salutation who had a Lebanese boyfriend. She kept asking me about my friend, as if I was a mere messenger. She never knew that she made me walk on air the entire encounter

Note 1: I barely recollect a regret Not involving a beautiful girl whom I failed to engage with. The first lesson in classrooms for adolescent of both sex should be “how to engage a girl you think you like” and save a lifetime of accumulated regrets.

Note 2: You may read a detailed account of these regrets and much more in my category Auto-biography




July 2018
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