I've read about numerous people, geniuses all, who either because of insomnia or because of the heat with which their brains burnt, needed almost no sleep and worked and thought and wrote throughout the dark hours of the night, not to mention those of the soul. Why is it, then, that when I wake at 3 AM unable to sleep, the only thought I can muster and fully form is a curse of my damnable luck?

It is an amazing fact—amazing to me, anyway—that after much experience over many years and often having earned it, I can still not stand not to be liked, or rather to be actively disliked. I'm sure there's a deep or shallow psychological explanation for it and I'm fairly certain I know what the (correct) explanation is. But, my mood and happiness are constantly in the hands of not just those I care about but almost anyone with whom I interact, since I apparently care enough about them to care that they not dislike me. Thus I am a bad debater fearing always that I might give offense, in spite of my temper I don't object even when I treated in egregious ways, I can't negotiate, I constantly want nothing more than to be liked. And that is a fault in so many ways.