Good evening, friends and fellow Melothespians. I feel it is time to reveal how I have been feeling lately (or not feeling, as the case may be) to the best of my severely limited abilities to quantify the emotions which roil within, ensconced deep in my psyche, never to be seen in the light of day. I warn you now, I am not feeling coherent at the moment, so this shall most likely be devoid of the cogency which generally characterises my entries. In fact, I generally make a point not to write entries when I'm feeling any particularly strong emotions, because they're generally depressing and merely show me to be a sad, pathetic little person. But no matter. Tally-ho, wot?

Before I launch into my bitter diatribe for the night, one note: today is a happy day, although most people shall not be aware why. [Editor's note: oddly enough, Melo seems to think this was posted on March 17, when in reality it was posted Tuesday, March 18—this is an important distinction, I assure you.] To commemorate this rare light in a den of shadows, a poem (although it was written by a woman about a man, I nevertheless feel that it describes what I feel better than anything else):

The first time that the son rose on thine oath
To love me, I looked forward to the moon
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man's love!—more like an out-of-tune
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced—
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and dote.

Warning: Contents under extreme despondence and angst. Do not read this entry if you do not wish to see me as the pathetic excuse for a human being that I can be. Please do not condemn me for my overly melodramatic tone—I am fully aware what sort of sad, sickening picture it paints of me.

I feel truly dead to the world: unthinking, unfeeling, callous to the ever-mocking beauty and warmth which constantly surround the rainclouds looming over me, their despaired deluge drenching my already feeble spirit. Although my façade is pleasant and gregarious, I often feel naught but contempt and bitterness toward my peers. I'll admit it: I'm jealous of how easily they are able to sail through life like happy-go-lucky schooners on calm seas, making friends, influencing people, worshipping Dale Carnegie and his Panglossian ideals as an effigy of foolish optimism.

Sometimes I wish I could blind myself to the atrocities of the world, as happy people seem to; somehow they manage not to see that as a species, Homo sapiens (Homo supine ["negligent, heedless, indolent"] is actually more appropriate) is bringing about its own downfall with swiftness to which not even the ancient Romans could claim. In a way, I envy optimists for their ignorance, for, to employ an already hackneyed maxim, "Ignorance is bliss."

But nay, I am not so fortunate as to be blissfully unaware of the iniquity and arrogance around me. Like every other cynic, my rose-coloured glasses have been torn off my eyes and smashed under the cruel boot heel of Reality, leaving me blinking dazedly at the cold, harsh sunlight, which reveals in gruesome detail what is usually hidden by the shadows of nescience and denial. Unlike those too deeply entrenched in their own technicolor dreamcoats to see what horrors lurk in the nooks and crannies of existence, I see it all: artifice, avarice, and, above all, arrogance. And it saddens me—it is invariably depressing to see things as they truly are: Plato's World of Appearances, alas, can never live up to the World of Forms inside our minds.

But I digress. I am not certain what has happened to me recently, but I simply no longer feel as if I am part of the world. It's as if the last tattered vestiges of kinship and humanity I once had have been rent as the gossamer fantasies that they were. When I walk amongst other people, I find no sense of belonging, no camaraderie at all; those who look into my eyes are surprised to find them frigid pools of icy rage and despair, pits of darkness glaring from the shadows which encircle my eyes. I feel nothing but hatred and enmity, lugubrious thoughts careening through the delicate spiderwebs of meaning in my mind.

I hate what my life has become, and I hate myself still more for having inflicted such needless suffering, such unnecessary burdens, upon a spirit that was once unflappable in the naïveté of youth. I no longer care about my responsibilities at school, nor the tasks expected of me at home; it does not matter to me that my relationship with my parents is plummeting into the abyss, and I shall almost certainly have to indebt myself to escape the negativity and anger which daily face me here. I am unheeding to all implorations and entreaties to get a handle on my life. So far as I am concerned, I have already ruined what little life I had left within me, besmirched and annihilated the last traces of compassion and Hope which burned within me; that once-eternal flame has been extinguished by the wintry waters of disdain.

What of love, you ask? Love may yet save me—indeed, may be the only thing that can pluck me from impending doom. But how is such a bitter, black, hardened heart as mine worthy of love? How can someone so tortured by the demons within even feel enough to comprehend love? I sometimes wonder if I am human at all, for do not humans feel? I repress and ignore my emotions like some sort of twisted Vulcan, shut myself off from the world and allow no one to enter into the sanctuary within my mind, the refuge of my heart. Why—how—could anyone possibly love me? And if someone could find some way to look past my callous exterior, how could I possibly reciprocate? How could I look within and find that dim glow of Hope still smouldering in the ashes, rekindle the flame, and thaw my heart? I do not deserve love, and I never shall. And no one deserves to love someone as cold and cruel as I—I fear I shall only hurt them. Why must I be this way? Why must I torment myself and those who care about me?

Ugh, I hate writing when I'm feeling like this. I'm tempted to erase the lot of it, but I needed to vent, and I think you all should see just how bitter I am, how dark I can be. To clarify: I am not a happy person. In fact, I cannot remember a time when I truly was. Perhaps I grew up too quickly in some ways and retarded my growth in others.

This is the story of a little boy who taught himself to read at age 2; who, by first grade, was reading a full-sized dictionary while his classmates were still slowly mastering the art of reading letters; who, by second grade, was reading books written for adults on such subjects as Adolf Hitler and world mythology, among other things. Before he reached sixth grade, this young man had read much of Stephen King's works, watched far more than his fair share of horror movies, had, in short, revealed himself to all that is evil in the world. Having never been raised with religion, this boy grew up bowing to Married With Children and R-rated movies, steeping himself in cynicism, sex, and violence.

That boy, now officially an adult, has become worldly and jaded with age, yes, but has he truly matured emotionally? Or, inside, is he still the frightened little boy who ran home crying after school every day, whose many rejections by those who he thought reviled him left him paranoid and wary of happiness, who, to this very day, presumes that he must convince people that he is worthy of affection, worthy of something as simple and wonderful as friendship or love?

[Exit Orpheum.]