Sunday.

Failing is something I have never dealt with very well. I have developed the mentality that it is better to not have tried at all than it is to try and fail like a sad miserable mess.

I was that sad miserable mess today. Fifty-three per cent is technically a pass in a university assignment, but to me it might as well be a fail. It seems the longer I study at university the less results have any correlation with effort applied, or content grasped. Although this particular piece of assessment was a miserable failure predominantly because I didn't follow the Stalinist guidelines on how it was to be submitted.

ex-Boss says he knows some people and that he will have my teachers knee-caps broken. I considered his romantic gesture but decided that Sunday's are meant for rest (and perhaps peace). We spent the rest of the day lying in the park, eating corn off the cob and trying to avoid sitting under trees with shitting birds.

I spent most of the time wondering if I had said those three words with too much haste. I wondered if I did indeed love him or if I just felt, I don't know, something else. I'm leaving for London in seven weeks, I'm insane to even entertain the idea of falling in love, least of all actually do it. I'm terrified of committing to him while I'm away, I don't trust myself. Mainly I don't trust myself to feel anything constantly and so I can't promise I will still feel the way I do about him when I'm a million miles away.

I can't figure out if that is selfishness. If it is opportunism; that I'm always looking for something else, something more. I wonder if I will ever be satisfied enough to have constant feelings or perhaps I will always be an alternating current of emotions, switching every time I feel uncertain or afraid.