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A lady asked me yesterday what I find myself obsessed with these days. I had no answer last night. Today I think I do... self-deception. Every one does it, and it's the devil that's convinced you he doesn't exist. A few things were pointed out about my character by someone, and though I tried damned hard to outright reject them, the nature of their attribution couldn't allow me to deny their validity (cryptic enough? okok, I was told I don't take responsibility for my emotions. Which is kind of unfair, as to a degree, their purpose and very existence is impossible to be underwritten by your culpability. And perhaps that's all that selfcontrol is, adjusting your response to the stimulus. But people can overcompensate and become rigid, lock it down and quiver unhappily till the original feelings fester and become illness.) And so, I don't really have much to say about self-deception. Or rather, I have a lot, but I'm midobsession. I will come back to 'er later.
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ps. Miss the world cup? Here's a montage of England's striker Peter Crouch after his risible attempt to roundhouse a cross during the Trinidad and Tobago game.