The frustration of overdue homework unconsummated, unfulfilled, and about a million other things have culminated a bare few hours and minutes before officially the worst day in the modern calender. In short, Butlerman is a very very unsatisfied superhero.

In defence, I would like to claim that I've always condemned Valentines Day as utterly meaningless, since intellectual consciousness (which probably came not long after I vocalised my first swear word and realised it represents life in its entirety - deep!), yet that theory probably wouldn't hold a millilitre of water to any self-respecting psychoanalyst, as I proceed to howl my angst at the moon. In thoughtful consideration of everybody else, I shall explain somewhat thoroughly.

As consistent readers would have longed theorized, I tend to live my life in Gandhi-esque peacefulness and worldly acceptance, until times such as this when nobody is readily available to hear them out and the world wide web (and subsequently, you, poor reader) will became yet another victim to Sweeney Todd's my vengeance. And then in approximately 2o seconds, Mr. Hyde subsides and I leave the world in the peaceful state of religious/class/racial conflict and debauchery that it put itself in.

Despite proclaiming myself to be a romantic (a pessimistic one at best), and in the light of the omnimous shadow of the unstoppable juggernaut that lumbers tomorrow, even romanticism cannot stop me now. Leading intellectuals around the globe scratch their dandruff-ridden scalps, confounded as they struggle to understand me. For every reason why I would like to rant incessantly at her (even that seems too accusatory for my innocent sentiments) the opposite party of my past relationship, I can think of two more not to. For every reason why I would like someone to understand this, I can think of painful consequences of why not. Which basically sums up the incredible irony that accompanies the "privacy" of an online journal. Not that anyone who has a blog wouldn't understand. Admittedly, I've always had a certain amount of jealousy and accompanying disdain of anyone who would openly air dirty laundry.

Why whine - when you can beat around the bush and post from the poor tastefulness from the perspective of a lunatic cum superhero.

I shall afford myself, and yourselves this much information -> That I have ever much more to say that never goes said, if only because I feel it makes me a better superhuman to be a liar. In a mocking soul-search, is someone defined by his inner self, or the way he disguises them? I could go on, make references to religion & the Bible et cetera (and trust me I already have, but editions in the post mortem of this episode seemed overdue), and read Nietzschien theories and still not get the answer I suppose. Besides I have math to attend to.

Congratulations on getting this far. And sincerest apologies to anyone who took offence (I can think of a few), or was expecting another light-hearted whimsical flight of fancy of allusions to masked vigilantism.
TO THE BATMOBLE