There is a time that needn't come in every man's life, but has in mine: the dawning realization that I am a bad person. In earlier years, potential shadowed reality. Later, tightly-held naivete blinded me to signs until fate threw enough undeniable sings that I could no longer ignore. Unlike most essays, I share this not because it is generally applicable but because it is so personal. You'll never have to experience this. You are a decent person. Today wasn't my best of days.
In vino veritas. Latin fails me (and I it), but the gist is "drunk ex-girlfriends are never a good thing." You wake up the next morning either with another body in your bed or not having slept because she managed to salt the wounds you never knew you had, even through your supposedly-healed armor. In my case, it was both. Like I said, weird day.
I am competent, but not incredible, in my ambitions and a failure in all else. My faults are too numerous to summarize and too shameful to specify. I am unworthy of my position, and must either improve myself, which is impossible, or remove myself from it, which is unthinkable.
So, if you're reading this, you're probably an acquaintance of mine or a friend of an acquaintance. If you're the former, please forgive me; if you're the latter, please apologize profusely on my behalf to our mutual acquaintance. I'm sure you all understand that I'm going to retreat to my metaphorical cave, and as soon as I get the proper building permits, my physical one.
-Bentley