I Am Mother Superior

And a self-loathing apple! Someone, please, slit my wrist! What else can one do but laugh at oneself? Hm! Also, perhaps now is the time to stop spilling my sorry, wretched guts all over the internet? Actually, I'm pretty sure that point happened at least four years ago, sooooo why stop now? I mean, I could make a declaration, and then maybe even put forth some effort, but I think I've come to terms by now with the fact that I compulsively scream in type from time to time, so.... why bother? I have bigger fish to fry for now.

Fish with calcium deposits and European travel guides? ::rolls eyes::

_______________________

I would like to say that I know I am a sad, pathetic fuck. I am aware of this. I firmly believe, though, that it is just because there is really not a lot going on in my life right now, so I do a lot of trawling over old memories. It's a character flaw. Whenever day-to-day social dramaturgy gets slow, I mentally return to my pet miseries. Don't worry, I won't go on like this forever. Someday I'll have my therapy breakthrough, and then nothing will bother me anymore!

But until that sail-into-the-sunset moment, I am mostly okay with where I am right now. I'm muddling through. I'm trying to improve. So what else can I do? Accept the state of the present. And that's work in itself.

Return (or Not) of the Funeral Service

Tuesday. Now it's Sunday. That's five days. Is this how you're going to leave me, after all this time?

One simple, casual, unrelated-to-anything question...how hard is that to answer?

Maybe I'm being like Mother Superior (jumping the gun), but.....I suppose the final cut-off has to happen some day, right?

(I never thought it would happen. Yes, I'm stupid and narcissistic and vain and selfish and needy and arrogant and a bitch for the ages, but the truth is I never thought it would happen.)

And melodramatic? I can't do this. I can't do this.

Nooooooooooooo.......

it's over

And I'm okay. For now, I'm okay.

Days are long trenches of stress. Long trenches of which I don't ever want to reach the end.

I am afraid, I am afraid of the end.

Day Five: You Don't Answer the Phone

You slay me with this neglect.

In Which I Over-Use "the F Word"

Last night I actually prayed--to the good old-fashioned God--for a little insight on the situation. What should I do? What should I say? How should I treat him? I am at that much of a loss. It felt like a grasp at the proverbial straw, but hey, it's worth a shot, eh? The end of my wit is frightfully close.

Weirdly (oh ye of little faith) today it occurs to me, floating to the top of my brain like the bubble in the water cooler, that perhaps I could...forgive you.

Think about it. He doesn't care. Anything I could say would only affect me, not him. So...why not just let it go? Face it: the chances that we will ever see each other again after this are travel-sized at best. Why fuck it up with some awful, fruitless conversation? Why not just let it go, inhale and exhale, smile, and have one last good time? It's not like there's going to be future hang-outs to have to figure out what to do with him.... This is it. So perhaps I should just fucking relax.

god, I'm aware of how fucking cliche this sounds. I mean, I'm not ruling out my other options just yet (the thought of my fist connecting with his jawline is sometimes too beautiful to ignore), but still. Odd, huh?

It's awkward adding God into all this. I've been asking for some confirmation of.....anything, really....for quite a while now, and no results. And now this happens and I want to wave it away. This is why I'm such a good candidate for Hades. I'm a piece of shit. <--- I don't know what to think.

P.S. And it's not as though, as utterly unoriginal as it is, I don't still love the kid. Love. That's one weird fucking thing, yeah?

Clarity, Banally Moment-Sized

You don't deserve this.

You don't deserve the past 28 hours I've spent trying desperately and somewhat unsuccessfully to distract myself from the fact that you don't give a shit. I've gambled on you and cared about you and gotten angry with you and spent so much time and fierceness on you and you don't deserve any of it. You don't deserve....at least 3/4s of the people who you mean so much to. You're awful. But I still love you, of course, just like they all still love you. Out of all the people who might merit the amount of affection and commitment you receive, your name is woefully low on the list.

I know it seems a bit harsh to say, but sometimes....more and more often, I feel really bad for your lovely mum.

Nothing infuriates me quite like indifference. I FUCKING HATE INDIFFERENCE, GOD DAMN IT!

Yes, there are many pity parties involved here. That's because I have to spend an undetermined, inordinate amount of time feeling bad about this while the thought hasn't even crossed your mind. And I hate that. I think it's unfair and it's awful. A new definition of "slay."

Okay, so that clarity didn't last much past the first five sentences.

Roses are Red

So, Germany, eh? When were you planning on telling me this? Oh, right. You weren't. Okay.

I'd always figured it would happen like this. I'd even correctly guessed a number of details to the point where it seems a bit eerie. But one detail I hadn't picked correctly was the date. I thought I still had some time. At the least, a few months. I didn't expect it now.

So you've done it again. Another one of those things where "if I'd have just seen it coming..." I would've been able to handle it. But in keeping with recent tradition, you blindsided me. Fucking sideswiped me, out of the blue. Set me spinning, dizzy from surprise.

You got me again!

Are you happy? Yeah, you're happy. You win. You've got all the power, the upper hand, and you can crack me wide open but I can't lay a finger on your precious hide.

Katelin heralded me of the news, and when we got off the phone I went up to my old bedroom and sobbed for about an hour; this including a chat with my mother who was woken up from her bedroom next door on account of my crying so loud. They were a strange sort of tears, too. I don't think I've ever cried like that before. Ache ache ache. Happy? Are you happy now? Of course you're happy.

Well, I want you to be happy. But not like this.

So?

Like a Shark Attack Inside Your Skull

I'm a mess.

And that's in regards to the post below. I've spent the past five days trying to get used to this, but it's not working out very well; in fact, I think it's going retrograde.

Yeah. William says, "A big, big mess! A BIG, BIG MESS!" Now kick it.

I haven't cut myself yet? That's something.