Do Not Ever expect me to be proud of "trying" that results in failure, when that failure means I am still without companionship, with company, without even sex, for fuck's sake. How in hell could anyone reasonably expect me to jump for fucking joy at some attempt that's got me, well, nothing? If it were some mundane thing, that might be different; but this is the game of human relations, and I find no personal satisfaction in the attempt. There isn't a noble fucking thing about it. There's no pride to be had from the continued hurt of being lonely.