Introspection has lead to melancholia, and I'm having a hard time snapping out of it.

I finished and turned in that article, but I missed today's a.m. deadline for the testimonial. That's okay, I'm tired of defending my bad wiring to people anyway. I wouldn't have said anything that I haven't already said dozens of times, and nobody ever listened before.

I'm trying to feel good about turning in the article, but even though the editor asked me to write it there is still no guarantee that they'll publish it (or pay me for it), so I think I'll delay my reaction until I get a response.

I just can't stop thinking about what a waste my adult life has been so far. If I knew I was going to die tomorrow, there would be so many things I'd regret, things I haven't done, out of either fear or sheer laziness.

I think my biggest regret would be the complete lack of romance in my life. There was one guy I pined for all through high school, but that never amounted to anything. Other than that, I've never been in love, and I've never had a serious relationship. How depressing is that? It's my own fault for being so damned picky and neurotic. Except for the occasional celebrity-crush, I don't even allow myself to fall in like with a guy until I've found out his religious background and made sure that he doesn't share any character traits whatsoever with my father. You'd be surprised how many guys that knocks out of the running, and how quickly.

I keep thinking about that line from Rent, "give into love or live in fear." I live in so much fear that I'm going to end up with someone like my dad that I've closed myself off from having any kind of really meaningful relationship with the opposite sex. I don't blame my dad, though. I blame myself for being such an overanalytical chickenshit.

The really sad thing is, I'm at a total loss as to what to do about it.