Yesterday's affirmations of hope and absolution did not work in the slightest.
I sunk to a new low today. I called Befrienders . I spoke to Ashley. She said its because I'm feeling abandoned and worthless. How astute. I could have told you that Ashley. I must admit, that it felt good to talk about it to a complete stranger. But the good feels only lasted for like less than an hour.
I couldn't sleep. Try as I might it was basically me staring into darkness. Mind racing. Thoughts of her and her. I'm a selfish cunt. I want what others have. And when I don't get them I get all petulant. And for what? Two people who only have temporary permanence in my life? Both of them aren't even in the same country for God's sake. They don't owe me shit.
Why? Why? Why do I feel this way? It's fucking driving me nuts.
I must resolve to forget them. Forge ahead.
I must resolve to forget them. Forge ahead.
I must resolve to forget them. Forge ahead.
I must resolve to forget them. Forge ahead.
Why? I'm supposed to be stronger than this goddamn it.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
The Profession
Being selfish, I've been told, is not one of the qualities which I'm known for. Those who say that, in retrospect, have not seen how I'm terribly selfish emotionally.
This is the story of the other M:
The Other M (henceforth M2) is my part time lover. When I say that, I mean I'm only in love with her when I'm on the Island. And quite possibly for a month or two after I have departed the Island. And then, inevitably and because of the distance and difference in mindsets, we drift apart again. Until I return to the Island and we start over again.
I met M2 on my second time on the Island. She approached me in a crowded bar, as you do, and I haven't been able to forget her since then. Of the time I spent there on the second trip, I was with her for most of the nights. It was a transaction that became way too personal. I still can't explain the attraction there was between us, but attraction there was, genuine or otherwise.
I left the island in an M2-induced haze. You could say the sex was good, but I have before and since had way better. There was something about her I can't quite describe but there it was. In the months after I left the Island we kept in touch. Then she asked me for money with a sob story.
If you know me, that will do it. Off to Western Union we go. We kept talking after that, mostly sweet nothings. Enquiring about mundane shit like whether we have eaten and how our day was. It was a disgustingly domesticated and sordid way of keeping in touch. But we humored each other.
Then came the day she told me she ran out of money again. Because the trade she was in wasn't doing so well. I preempted it with a firm no. It was not because I was financially in dire straits myself. But it would not stand for her to make it a habit of asking me for money. She said she understood but then promptly sold her phone. Without telling me. I lost her then. And I went on with life with her being a distant but fond memory.
I returned to the Island recently. I initially had no intention of contacting M2 whatsoever. What were the chances she probably got married off and honoured up by quitting the Profession? I couldn't know that. Plus it's the Island. Looking for companionship is way more easier than it should be. Depending on how much paper you carried in your wallet anyway.
The first night I was there was a horrible alcohol induced haze of bad decisions and mediocre fucking. Mostly on my temporary companion's part. Maybe mine too. Forgettable to say the least.
The second night was an absolute bust, and I'm not talking about my nut here. It had more to do with the lack of professionalism with the Professionals in their slightly misconceived notion that only certain nationalities were a good and proper meal ticket.
The third day, I resolved not to repeat the first two nights' mistakes. I took a chance and looked for M2 on Facebook. Easy enough to find. The hard part would be seeing if she was willing to see her former part time lover again. She was. She would arrive the next day. Well no sense wasting another night just to wheat the appetite. The third night was a repeat of the second night, with fatigue thrown into the mix. It was another bust and I was tired. But no matter. At least the next day would be a sure thing.
And it was. On the fourth night we rekindled the lost attraction over pizza and beer and sex. It could that I was both emotionally and sexually starved but it was better this time. And not just the sex either. She was more intelligent than I last remembered and she carried herself and her conversations with me well. If you know me, brains on a woman is an extreme turn on. The night ended with the promise of more rekindling the next day.
On the fourth day, my indiscretion with midday partaking of copious amounts of alcohol left me incapable of meeting with her on this, the last night on the Island. Much to my regret.Here's a tip, don't take tequila. It will fuck you up.
I left the Island on the fifth day, with me and her saying our goodbyes and promising to keep in touch. As per usual.
I arrived back to steel and concrete jungle which I call home suffering from Island hangover, and probably M2 hangover as well. How I loathed returning to the shit and skullduggery of my purposeless life as a non-contributing member of society.
I guess that's why they call it a holiday. You go to forget to your problems and hopefully come back refreshed of body, soul and mind to face them.
And face them I did. Life was slightly better than it was before I left. I had a job interview lined up. I was losing weight and being relatively healthy, sans smoking habit. I was still in contact with M2, the usual sweet nothings and enquiries of well being. How copacetic.
Before we continue, I must point out that, at all times, I knew about her Profession. I knew it and I accepted it as part of her life. A means to an end. I understood. I really did. I was not angry that she warmed the bed of other anonymous men. It would be hypocritically of me to judge as I often warm the bed of mostly anonymous women. It's the Profession.
Then came the day I got my tattoo of Hermes's paw. That odd shaped paw print. I had been planning it for a long time and I finally got it done. Goodbye to working in frontline customer jobs but hello memorial tattoo of my best four legged furry friend/child. The day, as I seemed to recall it, was good. I remember planning out what to say during the job interview and managed to play a bit of Arkham Origins.
Then, at 3:30 AM, while listening to a Kevin Smith podcast, I got that fateful message from Michelle. You know what happened next.
What you didn't know was that I, stupidly, looked for some semblance of commiseration with M2. One thing led to another and I discovered her other Facebook page. And she posted a picture of her with some other guy and one picture in particular further inflamed my sense of despair. It was a picture of her holding a ring next to the said guy and saying "I can't wait!".
I reacted the only was I could. With passive aggressive sardonicism. I congratulated her on her upcoming nuptials. She replied that it was only a joke she wanted to share with her friends. She said she was too young to get married and was still in college anyway. I asked about the guy and she mentioned that he was her current boyfriend. Long distance. Then she said she could never marry, because of the Profession. The guy did not know about her Profession and if he did he would never marry her anyway.
I didn't know what to make of it. I just accepted it. Because it was then I came to the realization that whatever fucking pretense I was having with and about her was a goddamned lie. A lie that I created. Too soothe my poor, sorry lonesome ego. She was in the profession, I was a Mark. Put aside my delusions of companionship and that's all we really are. She has no obligation whatsoever to cradle and stroke my ego. She should be free to pursue her own happiness, whatever they may be.
The cold hard truth is this: we can never be more than anything other than part time lovers on the Island.
In my fragile state of mind that day, I unloaded on her, for once, emotionally rather than physically. And I kept up my delusion for a while like how a junkie takes a hit and promises himself that it's just one last hit to tide him over when he goes to rehab tomorrow.
Well, tomorrow arrived. She said she would like to keep in touch with me because she liked me and I reciprocated because you never know when I was going back to the Island. Though she doesn't have to know that.
It tugs my heart ever so faintly but I must learn to face the truth of the matter at hand. She can find her own happiness without me. And I must seek my own.Whatever said and done, we'll always have our moment on the Island.
I think overall, this tattoo is symbolic of the emotional tribulation I've been through in the last week. It was itching like crazy and now, its starting to peel and it doesn't itch anymore. I'm slowly getting better with the passing of time.
I will end with one of my favorite quotes : این نیز بگذرد
This too shall pass.
This is the story of the other M:
The Other M (henceforth M2) is my part time lover. When I say that, I mean I'm only in love with her when I'm on the Island. And quite possibly for a month or two after I have departed the Island. And then, inevitably and because of the distance and difference in mindsets, we drift apart again. Until I return to the Island and we start over again.
I met M2 on my second time on the Island. She approached me in a crowded bar, as you do, and I haven't been able to forget her since then. Of the time I spent there on the second trip, I was with her for most of the nights. It was a transaction that became way too personal. I still can't explain the attraction there was between us, but attraction there was, genuine or otherwise.
I left the island in an M2-induced haze. You could say the sex was good, but I have before and since had way better. There was something about her I can't quite describe but there it was. In the months after I left the Island we kept in touch. Then she asked me for money with a sob story.
If you know me, that will do it. Off to Western Union we go. We kept talking after that, mostly sweet nothings. Enquiring about mundane shit like whether we have eaten and how our day was. It was a disgustingly domesticated and sordid way of keeping in touch. But we humored each other.
Then came the day she told me she ran out of money again. Because the trade she was in wasn't doing so well. I preempted it with a firm no. It was not because I was financially in dire straits myself. But it would not stand for her to make it a habit of asking me for money. She said she understood but then promptly sold her phone. Without telling me. I lost her then. And I went on with life with her being a distant but fond memory.
I returned to the Island recently. I initially had no intention of contacting M2 whatsoever. What were the chances she probably got married off and honoured up by quitting the Profession? I couldn't know that. Plus it's the Island. Looking for companionship is way more easier than it should be. Depending on how much paper you carried in your wallet anyway.
The first night I was there was a horrible alcohol induced haze of bad decisions and mediocre fucking. Mostly on my temporary companion's part. Maybe mine too. Forgettable to say the least.
The second night was an absolute bust, and I'm not talking about my nut here. It had more to do with the lack of professionalism with the Professionals in their slightly misconceived notion that only certain nationalities were a good and proper meal ticket.
The third day, I resolved not to repeat the first two nights' mistakes. I took a chance and looked for M2 on Facebook. Easy enough to find. The hard part would be seeing if she was willing to see her former part time lover again. She was. She would arrive the next day. Well no sense wasting another night just to wheat the appetite. The third night was a repeat of the second night, with fatigue thrown into the mix. It was another bust and I was tired. But no matter. At least the next day would be a sure thing.
And it was. On the fourth night we rekindled the lost attraction over pizza and beer and sex. It could that I was both emotionally and sexually starved but it was better this time. And not just the sex either. She was more intelligent than I last remembered and she carried herself and her conversations with me well. If you know me, brains on a woman is an extreme turn on. The night ended with the promise of more rekindling the next day.
On the fourth day, my indiscretion with midday partaking of copious amounts of alcohol left me incapable of meeting with her on this, the last night on the Island. Much to my regret.Here's a tip, don't take tequila. It will fuck you up.
I left the Island on the fifth day, with me and her saying our goodbyes and promising to keep in touch. As per usual.
I arrived back to steel and concrete jungle which I call home suffering from Island hangover, and probably M2 hangover as well. How I loathed returning to the shit and skullduggery of my purposeless life as a non-contributing member of society.
I guess that's why they call it a holiday. You go to forget to your problems and hopefully come back refreshed of body, soul and mind to face them.
And face them I did. Life was slightly better than it was before I left. I had a job interview lined up. I was losing weight and being relatively healthy, sans smoking habit. I was still in contact with M2, the usual sweet nothings and enquiries of well being. How copacetic.
Before we continue, I must point out that, at all times, I knew about her Profession. I knew it and I accepted it as part of her life. A means to an end. I understood. I really did. I was not angry that she warmed the bed of other anonymous men. It would be hypocritically of me to judge as I often warm the bed of mostly anonymous women. It's the Profession.
Then came the day I got my tattoo of Hermes's paw. That odd shaped paw print. I had been planning it for a long time and I finally got it done. Goodbye to working in frontline customer jobs but hello memorial tattoo of my best four legged furry friend/child. The day, as I seemed to recall it, was good. I remember planning out what to say during the job interview and managed to play a bit of Arkham Origins.
Then, at 3:30 AM, while listening to a Kevin Smith podcast, I got that fateful message from Michelle. You know what happened next.
What you didn't know was that I, stupidly, looked for some semblance of commiseration with M2. One thing led to another and I discovered her other Facebook page. And she posted a picture of her with some other guy and one picture in particular further inflamed my sense of despair. It was a picture of her holding a ring next to the said guy and saying "I can't wait!".
I reacted the only was I could. With passive aggressive sardonicism. I congratulated her on her upcoming nuptials. She replied that it was only a joke she wanted to share with her friends. She said she was too young to get married and was still in college anyway. I asked about the guy and she mentioned that he was her current boyfriend. Long distance. Then she said she could never marry, because of the Profession. The guy did not know about her Profession and if he did he would never marry her anyway.
I didn't know what to make of it. I just accepted it. Because it was then I came to the realization that whatever fucking pretense I was having with and about her was a goddamned lie. A lie that I created. Too soothe my poor, sorry lonesome ego. She was in the profession, I was a Mark. Put aside my delusions of companionship and that's all we really are. She has no obligation whatsoever to cradle and stroke my ego. She should be free to pursue her own happiness, whatever they may be.
The cold hard truth is this: we can never be more than anything other than part time lovers on the Island.
In my fragile state of mind that day, I unloaded on her, for once, emotionally rather than physically. And I kept up my delusion for a while like how a junkie takes a hit and promises himself that it's just one last hit to tide him over when he goes to rehab tomorrow.
Well, tomorrow arrived. She said she would like to keep in touch with me because she liked me and I reciprocated because you never know when I was going back to the Island. Though she doesn't have to know that.
It tugs my heart ever so faintly but I must learn to face the truth of the matter at hand. She can find her own happiness without me. And I must seek my own.Whatever said and done, we'll always have our moment on the Island.
I think overall, this tattoo is symbolic of the emotional tribulation I've been through in the last week. It was itching like crazy and now, its starting to peel and it doesn't itch anymore. I'm slowly getting better with the passing of time.
I will end with one of my favorite quotes : این نیز بگذرد
This too shall pass.
Monday, March 28, 2016
Reflection
It's been 9 years,3 months and 163 posts. Of those 9 years, I was inactive for 2 years. After the last post I decided to revisit all my posts. This is a bad thing, because I only blog when I'm extremely bored and/or depressed. And currently, I'm both.
Bored because I've currently been without work for the past 9 months though this situation will, hopefully, be remedied in short order following my interview on this coming Thursday with the same company I left 9 months ago. For a lower position and a lower pay. But lower pay is better than no pay. And it will at least allow me to focus on something other than all the negative shit that's been happening lately.
Which brings me to the depression. I've been hiding it for a good while now. Numbing myself in other stimuli like books, movies and games. Anything to distract me from the dreadful knowledge that I lived a life of no purpose, alone. I thought I kept the charade up pretty well. But then the shit went down last week and I guess the facade crumbled away.
It's been 4 days of living in a haze of melancholy. I don't really feel like eating (which has the great short term effect of helping to lose more weight; though in the long run, not really great) and sleep is akin to that of a cheap prostitute you paid for an overnight special but then bails after the 2nd hour. Exercising would have been great, what with all the release of endorphin, but the new tattoo of my dead dog's paw is still healing (and itchy like a crack whore).
Instead I'm spending most of my time awake either being a house steward or, especially in the night, on YouTube, listening to Ghost and other assorted metal bands. That's another sign by the way, of my descent into melancholy; incessant listening to metal (my emo rantings aside, you should listen to Ghost.Great band).
I suppose I should be grateful that that's the extent of it. Upon reflection of my previous posts through the years, it was quite a more destructive path of copious amounts of booze and cigarettes and the occasional self scarring. I think I've graduated from messed up kid to messed up man-child.
I've semi-stopped drinking (only on holidays) and I don't self scar unless it's done professionally and with ink. I still smoke like a motherfucker though. More now in fact since I have income. I find I'm not polemically angry (i.e. fuck the world) anymore but more melancholic (i.e. why are things fucked up and why can't I supposedly do anything about it?). Its like anger's lazier, more chilled out, stoner cousin.
Yeah, I get sad, but I don't feel like slitting my wrists anymore. Work and income and the material things I can buy from said income have helped tremendously in that sense. That's why I didn't blog for over two years. I was working. Living. Semi happy or somewhat content with my lot in life. And now that I no longer have that, I look back at everything and have arrived back at the exact spot which I started. Alone, jobless, purposeless.
Maybe it's all temporary. Melancholy, happiness. One can't live without being defined by the other. Well, it's melancholy's reign now. After a long time it feels like an old, spiteful friend. Familiar but detested. And, to put it simply, it sucks balls.
When I first started writing this post I went thorough the other post and I was thinking, fucking hell, nothing about me has changed one bit. Just older. But in the course of writing it, around maybe the 6th paragraph, I realized that it's not all that bad. I will get better eventually. Especially with that job lined up around the corner. I will eventually forget about the casus melancholia, namely the two Ms, and things will get better again. They have to. Otherwise, what the point of it all?
I find that it's becoming like a litany nowadays. I always have to keep telling myself that things will get better. It's becoming annoying.
In conclusion, listen to Ghost! And no, I'm not shamelessly plugging for them because I work for them. They've been the soundtrack to my melancholy. And its a damn good soundtrack.
Bored because I've currently been without work for the past 9 months though this situation will, hopefully, be remedied in short order following my interview on this coming Thursday with the same company I left 9 months ago. For a lower position and a lower pay. But lower pay is better than no pay. And it will at least allow me to focus on something other than all the negative shit that's been happening lately.
Which brings me to the depression. I've been hiding it for a good while now. Numbing myself in other stimuli like books, movies and games. Anything to distract me from the dreadful knowledge that I lived a life of no purpose, alone. I thought I kept the charade up pretty well. But then the shit went down last week and I guess the facade crumbled away.
It's been 4 days of living in a haze of melancholy. I don't really feel like eating (which has the great short term effect of helping to lose more weight; though in the long run, not really great) and sleep is akin to that of a cheap prostitute you paid for an overnight special but then bails after the 2nd hour. Exercising would have been great, what with all the release of endorphin, but the new tattoo of my dead dog's paw is still healing (and itchy like a crack whore).
Instead I'm spending most of my time awake either being a house steward or, especially in the night, on YouTube, listening to Ghost and other assorted metal bands. That's another sign by the way, of my descent into melancholy; incessant listening to metal (my emo rantings aside, you should listen to Ghost.Great band).
I suppose I should be grateful that that's the extent of it. Upon reflection of my previous posts through the years, it was quite a more destructive path of copious amounts of booze and cigarettes and the occasional self scarring. I think I've graduated from messed up kid to messed up man-child.
I've semi-stopped drinking (only on holidays) and I don't self scar unless it's done professionally and with ink. I still smoke like a motherfucker though. More now in fact since I have income. I find I'm not polemically angry (i.e. fuck the world) anymore but more melancholic (i.e. why are things fucked up and why can't I supposedly do anything about it?). Its like anger's lazier, more chilled out, stoner cousin.
Yeah, I get sad, but I don't feel like slitting my wrists anymore. Work and income and the material things I can buy from said income have helped tremendously in that sense. That's why I didn't blog for over two years. I was working. Living. Semi happy or somewhat content with my lot in life. And now that I no longer have that, I look back at everything and have arrived back at the exact spot which I started. Alone, jobless, purposeless.
Maybe it's all temporary. Melancholy, happiness. One can't live without being defined by the other. Well, it's melancholy's reign now. After a long time it feels like an old, spiteful friend. Familiar but detested. And, to put it simply, it sucks balls.
When I first started writing this post I went thorough the other post and I was thinking, fucking hell, nothing about me has changed one bit. Just older. But in the course of writing it, around maybe the 6th paragraph, I realized that it's not all that bad. I will get better eventually. Especially with that job lined up around the corner. I will eventually forget about the casus melancholia, namely the two Ms, and things will get better again. They have to. Otherwise, what the point of it all?
I find that it's becoming like a litany nowadays. I always have to keep telling myself that things will get better. It's becoming annoying.
In conclusion, listen to Ghost! And no, I'm not shamelessly plugging for them because I work for them. They've been the soundtrack to my melancholy. And its a damn good soundtrack.
Sunday, March 27, 2016
End
Its been 11 years since I started this blog. And before that I had another blog somewhere and I can't even remember the name of the blog host anymore since 2002. I started it as a way to share my feelings. With anyone who was willing to trawl through the wall of text. But, as you can tell, the blog postings became less and less frequent. Life took over. I didn't have time to write or rather share anything. I still have the feels.
You'd think at 31 life would just sort of start being automatic and preordained by society. Good job, wife, kids, house. All that good shit you were brought up on to believe that those are the necessary ingredients to a happy and fulfilling life. I don't have any of that. Only the first ingredient concerns me as it allows me to pay for shit I think I want but in reality, if I'm honest, I don't really need. But you know, capitalism and base desires and all that intellectual sounding bullcrap.
Like I said, life took over. I had 4 jobs in the last 8 years. Out of which I've only stayed at one for 3 years. The others rarely lasted more than a month. I could say that I was still searching for the right job but I know I'm not fooling anyone. I don't have my shit figured out. Life, which includes friends and family, have moved on way ahead of me and I'm still stuck here. By here I mean alone and awake at 2AM writing on a blog I hardly write on anymore, with no real purpose in life.
This melancholy this time was brought about the fact that Michelle is getting married. Fine. Get married. It's part of the journey or life or insert whatever cliche about life you want here. What has got me pissed off, illogically is this:
In regards to Michelle, her husband to be, surprise surprise, sees me as a threat and has asked Michelle to choose between me and him. Stop me if you haven't heard of that before. It's happened every fucking time with all her relationships. Yeah, yeah. We're good friends and I'm her unconditional security blanket and all that good shit. She was nice enough when she was single but after the relationship comes in, our friendship always gets puts on ice. To her credit, she did try to fight for it but in the end, inevitable, my friendship really didn't mean anything . And I'm sick of that shit. So that's the end of the friendship after 16 years. It was the second longest friendship I had after Jas. But sure, piss it all away. Because love-always-wins.
The above situation shouldn't really get me angry if I think about it logically. I mean, Michelle is far away from me and absence makes the heart grow colder. She doesn't really impact my life in any way other than friendship and camaraderie. So why the fuck am I angry then?
I'll tell you why; its because I have some screwed up false notion that she owes me some sort of obligation not to betray my trust and my feelings. I don't know where the fuck this comes from. Because she obviously doesn't. I'm clearly not someone who means a whole lot in her life either. And I think I found the crux of it. I'm mad at myself. For allowing myself to trust.
I'll be frank. Before I wrote this paragraph I had written a long angry, emo, 3 paragraph spiel about not trusting people because people will invariably hurt you one way or the other. After having to take a piss and a smoke, I deleted it. Because in a moment of epiphany, I realized that its just one person out of the 40 or so other people which I really care about and trust with all my heart. She doesn't
matter in the long run but the other 39 do (at least until they hurt you too but we'll cross that bridge when we get there).
Yeah, I'll still hurt for a while. Especially due to our long, shared past. But I'll get over it eventually. And knowing that that eventuality WILL come makes me feel slightly better. I could really use a Red Horse now though. But alas, I apparently don't drink anymore. At least when I'm not on vacation anyway.
I chose the subject title of this blog because when I first started writing, I wanted to close this blog. I
hardly write anymore and I'm pretty sure that half the people who are apparently my followers are in reality just fucking bots. Plus I keep a journal. You know, the old school type where you actually have to use a writing instrument to write your thoughts down on pages and stuff. But I find that I'm reluctant to do so now. I mean, it has been 11 years. Sentimentality is a hell of a feeling. So, I'm just
going to leave it open for now. I'll write in both mediums, time and thought permitting.
Those of you who actually do read this whole messy, spelling error littered, grammatical nightmare wall of text, thank you. Really. You could have been watching porn or stalking your crush but you actually took the time which you will never get back to read the emo rantings of some weird guy.
Thank you.
You'd think at 31 life would just sort of start being automatic and preordained by society. Good job, wife, kids, house. All that good shit you were brought up on to believe that those are the necessary ingredients to a happy and fulfilling life. I don't have any of that. Only the first ingredient concerns me as it allows me to pay for shit I think I want but in reality, if I'm honest, I don't really need. But you know, capitalism and base desires and all that intellectual sounding bullcrap.
Like I said, life took over. I had 4 jobs in the last 8 years. Out of which I've only stayed at one for 3 years. The others rarely lasted more than a month. I could say that I was still searching for the right job but I know I'm not fooling anyone. I don't have my shit figured out. Life, which includes friends and family, have moved on way ahead of me and I'm still stuck here. By here I mean alone and awake at 2AM writing on a blog I hardly write on anymore, with no real purpose in life.
This melancholy this time was brought about the fact that Michelle is getting married. Fine. Get married. It's part of the journey or life or insert whatever cliche about life you want here. What has got me pissed off, illogically is this:
In regards to Michelle, her husband to be, surprise surprise, sees me as a threat and has asked Michelle to choose between me and him. Stop me if you haven't heard of that before. It's happened every fucking time with all her relationships. Yeah, yeah. We're good friends and I'm her unconditional security blanket and all that good shit. She was nice enough when she was single but after the relationship comes in, our friendship always gets puts on ice. To her credit, she did try to fight for it but in the end, inevitable, my friendship really didn't mean anything . And I'm sick of that shit. So that's the end of the friendship after 16 years. It was the second longest friendship I had after Jas. But sure, piss it all away. Because love-always-wins.
The above situation shouldn't really get me angry if I think about it logically. I mean, Michelle is far away from me and absence makes the heart grow colder. She doesn't really impact my life in any way other than friendship and camaraderie. So why the fuck am I angry then?
I'll tell you why; its because I have some screwed up false notion that she owes me some sort of obligation not to betray my trust and my feelings. I don't know where the fuck this comes from. Because she obviously doesn't. I'm clearly not someone who means a whole lot in her life either. And I think I found the crux of it. I'm mad at myself. For allowing myself to trust.
I'll be frank. Before I wrote this paragraph I had written a long angry, emo, 3 paragraph spiel about not trusting people because people will invariably hurt you one way or the other. After having to take a piss and a smoke, I deleted it. Because in a moment of epiphany, I realized that its just one person out of the 40 or so other people which I really care about and trust with all my heart. She doesn't
matter in the long run but the other 39 do (at least until they hurt you too but we'll cross that bridge when we get there).
Yeah, I'll still hurt for a while. Especially due to our long, shared past. But I'll get over it eventually. And knowing that that eventuality WILL come makes me feel slightly better. I could really use a Red Horse now though. But alas, I apparently don't drink anymore. At least when I'm not on vacation anyway.
I chose the subject title of this blog because when I first started writing, I wanted to close this blog. I
hardly write anymore and I'm pretty sure that half the people who are apparently my followers are in reality just fucking bots. Plus I keep a journal. You know, the old school type where you actually have to use a writing instrument to write your thoughts down on pages and stuff. But I find that I'm reluctant to do so now. I mean, it has been 11 years. Sentimentality is a hell of a feeling. So, I'm just
going to leave it open for now. I'll write in both mediums, time and thought permitting.
Those of you who actually do read this whole messy, spelling error littered, grammatical nightmare wall of text, thank you. Really. You could have been watching porn or stalking your crush but you actually took the time which you will never get back to read the emo rantings of some weird guy.
Thank you.
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