Faith moans about being unattractive.

It seems so distastefully indulgent of me to succumb to my own incredible insecurity, reverting to this horrible facade of inexplicable, but entirely founded, self-hatred. Is it completely wrong of me to stay in the comfortable, familiar perimeters of my own personal loathing, or is it my natural, evolutionary duty as a maturing human being to accept that I will never be happy with the person I see in the mirror? Perhaps, one day, I will find someone who appreciates my presence more than I myself. Perhaps he will teach me how to feel something more than apathy towards everything Faith Olivia Newcombe stands for. Perhaps he'll never show his face - live an eternity in the steadfast arms of a woman more readily convinced of her own moral and physical and intellectual importance. I thought I had found you, but I was sincerely wrong. You are not the man to trick me into the security of my own disguised confidence - rather one to push me from the questionably balanced pedestal upon which you thought it wise to place me all those months ago. Only today have I realised, through the stern vexations of my own inconceivably harsh conclusioning, that I am not good enough for you. All this time I have been bartering for a place in your heart, but it has become painfully evident that I do not deserve one. I am not pretty or thin or particularly talented in any field of interest, and I don't think that intelligence and humour are notoriously impressive foundations on which to build a relationship.