Pity us, for we have been deceived

What even is going on?

I feel betrayed.

Ernest, my darling Ernest, is not Ernest - he is Algernon.

I don't even...

And Jack has been telling Gwen that he is called Ernest, too.

Poor Gwen.

To deceive her thus!

We are wounded. To deceive oneself is one thing, and rather inherent to one's personal experience, but to be deceived by another, in bad faith as such this is, show in my opinion a callous disregard for the feelings of the poor wretch on whom love has been inflicted.

For I do think I loved Ernest. And I think I still may love Algernon, even though his name is not Ernest.

But how am I to trust him, if he is perfectly calm lying to me about even the basic element of his identity?

And poor Gwen.

Evil, evil Jack, allowing her to believe that his name was Ernest. I shall have to repeatedly be mad with him for this.

Gwen, I apologise for being snippy with you, and for calling you names behind your back (and in your face), and for implying your vlog is worthless. Be my sister in our times of sorrow?

Go. Away.

If only Gwen would cease tormenting me.

I'm sure she's of perfectly moral character, but even people of the noblest possible moral character are susceptible to the influence of the physical charms of others, and I dare not have her around when Ernest is around.

She talks far too much about him already.

I should call a spade a spade, as I have never been afraid to do, and say that Gwendolen is of the worst, commonest character in any person I have ever had the misfortune of having to spend an extended period with.

Like relations, she seems to not have even the smallest inkling of when to simply die - or at least just go away.

She is older than me and thus old enough to know better, but it seems she knows nothing at all - which would be a virtue, if it not also meant that she has no sense of public decency. I am outraged at the extent with which she attempts to keep Ernest from my side. I am thoroughly of the opinion that women should know everything, at the very least to compensate for the fact that men know nothing (but like to pretend that they know all).

And she talks so much! Such a terrible habit. I don't want to be talking about her. I want to be talking about me.

Oh well. It'll be all right. I hope.

No.

NO NO NO NO.

Gwen.

Ugh.

Gwen.

NO NO NO NO.

Why is she still here? Why hasn't she sunk into a deep dark pit somewhere, ready to be devoured by some horrendous creature of the Underworld?

Gwen is a proper Morlock.

There.

Hands off my Ernest, you city dweller!

I don't see why Jack allows her to stay on as a guest. I avoid her most days, but when I can't...

Ugh.

Just no.

Go away, Gwen. Back to your filthy grimy city with your filthy grimy people. No one wants you here.

Or at least I don't.

Some people just spend far too much time in polite society to maintain proper social form and know when they're unwanted.