I thought having my life described by the Bridget Jones soundtrack was the most depressing thing. Well, I was wrong. Even more depressing is having to have an argument via reciprocal blog entries, since the entry with the song was totally misinterpreted.

So, and this should in no way be considered direct communication to anyone specific since I would never dream of doing that somewhere so public, fuck you. I'm not allowed to try and help, but I'm not allowed to be worried either? I know I'm going to be okay, eventually, because I'm me, so I have all the facts about myself and can make an accurate judgement. I don't know, don't understand, am not allowed to properly find out what's wrong with you, Mr. Hypothetical Non-Specific Person, so I have no idea if you're going to be okay, and the uncertainty has me worried sick.

Being worried sick over someone is not the same as being condescending.

And "okay" is not the same as "happy".

And fuck you, again, for making an irresistible urge to help you feel like I'm doing something wrong. And for making me yell at you about issues far too complex to be properly discussed via this stupid medium, guaranteeing that this entry will itself be misinterpreted, causing yet more damage.