2001-07-15 - 8:07 p.m.

'We few, we happy few, we band of brothers'.

So it is that I wish to write. A few merry truths? The Merry Wives of Windsor. My truth today cannot survive a mordant wit.

Alleviate. Levity. Classical scholars. Proximity. Elves. Why can't I bury myself?

An edible man. The unpalatable truth. My self-serving mint-julep joyride.

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I do not know that there are so many things at which I wonder consistently. 'Hamlet and his problems' can be anticipated and soothed with copius amounts of milk. Then of course there is Dame Iris and her oeuvre. Not to mention Dante. These are my clarions; arousals to sanity.

The truth is that I'm 22 years old and in all my 22 years the only thing of note that I've managed to 'accomplish' is the loss of my father.

Albert Anthony Grech

22 years old

quitter

unable to concentrate

friendless

a double-barrelled idealogue without ideas

a Canadian expat living in the middle of nowhere

I wake up every morning wishing I was someplace else

I fear proximity to people

I am at heart a misogynist

I view myself as heartily unattractive and yet this does not keep me from glancing at myself in the mirror

I want to know if anything is salvageable

To my eternal shame I often feel like a character from one of Puccini's operas. These mandatory realisations most often leave me blushed, if not indubitably blemished.

'La Fanciulla del West'. I am a pure sullen misbegotten creature. I don't know myself.

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