Where is the fine line between a challenge, and simply trying to kill yourself for the sake of making it out alive? I'm not sure if this is true or not, but apparently Napoleon had failed to poison himself because he had simply taken too much poison, and his body rejected it. I'm not sure if that was success, but that seems like something I've thrown myself into. Of course, I'm not sure if my body's rejected it yet.

Once again, I find myself an outsider to my own life. Too many conversations seem cold. My inspiration seems sucked dry, and I'm fatigued when I know so clearly that I have done nothing to deserve such a languid aftertaste. The people, even, seem too cold for my liking.

Four possible problems:

1. I've learned to have fun and developed a stamina for fun.

2. I have too much personality and my eccentricity has finally turned me into a quixotic fool.

3. I've simply been living in my own world for too long, and I should be glad to be back.

4. All of the above.

Yes, I'm leaning toward number four. Sometimes I feel like Xanga's my chicken soup, even if it can be unpredictable.