I was plotting ways to kill Myself, and each scheme concluded in vain.
"How terrible," you may exclaim, "Why would anyone want to kill Myself?" This question has its roots buried deep in the idea of love.
I determined that love is far too illogical to waste time chasing, although Myself would confirm that the pursuit of happiness is the equivalent to the quest for companionship. There are much greater aspects of humanity worth exploring, or so thinks I. Theology is interesting, anatomy is fascinating, language is intriguing, and physics is riveting. All of this holds very true for I.
Myself can be a pest, or very bothersome, and not just to I, but to any who would find a prolonged exposure to genuine kindness too sweet to taste. If you are not one of those people, then please realize that they are out there. Myself has had the displeasure of romantically engaging one who lacked the ability to tolerate such a sugary demeanor. This fact, despite its negative effects upon Myself, has not tarried the desire to capture love.
As stated before, I is very logical, and did not understand the need for romance. When love arrives, and plants itself into the heart, it is shared by all; Me, Myself, and I. Me cannot be hypnotized by the illusion of love, and patiently awaits the time when she and Me are alone. Myself and I, on the other hand, are ensnared by the principalities of companionship.
Myself is elated to undertake the task of conquering the rough and rocky terrain of love, and I is content with having more than Me or Myself to talk to. When love is ripped away from the heart, like a flower wrenched from the soil, Myself and I are all out of sorts (Me couldn't care any less, obviously).
Here is where the disparity of I and Myself is most prevalent. While I can learn from mistakes made by others, Myself is less keen to the habit. With great persistence, Myself refused to be defeated and returned to the vast ocean of varying fish, according to expression. Why? Surly I will never understand this.
The pain; the torment; the loss. What can compare to the internal injuries that unrequited love rends? They don't make sewing kits or glue guns for broken hearts. You may be inspired to research this for yourself, but do not waste your efforts, because I looked into it already.
"It is time to move on. Love is a meaningless game to the generation of our time, and commitment is as dead as the poetry of old," I will remind Myself, but the words fall upon naive ears. Myself is too stubborn to give up on romance, and this irked I beyond description.