Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- No. Really. [Prolific], Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I'm not drunk. Nor am I high. I want you to fuck off and never, ever come back. I don't want to talk to you again. I don't want to see you again. I don't even want you to think about me again. Because, you're worse than Bobby. Worse. Bobby was an asshole. But, you're an asshole that knew better. You KNEW the shit he put me through. The fact I had to email him to contact him, the fact he wouldn't answer the phone. You KNEW all of this, and still. Here I am, on a Sunday night, trying to call you, and you're not fucking there. Like you weren't there at 3 something, like you weren't there all week. I'm so consumed with hatred right now, it's tearing through me. It's so bad, I want to run away from it. Because I completely and totally fucking hate you right now. I fucking hate you. Sure, this is immature. But what fucking options do I have? It's not like I can CALL you. It's not like I can even say you'll read this this week. So this is all the closure I can get. At least I won't have to find out a year from now that you're fucking someone else through a friend. At least I have that. I don't care how dumb this makes me look. I don't care how incredibly psycho I sound right now. The fact is I can't get anything. I can't get a reaction. I can't get feelings. I cannot get validation for anything I'm going through right now, because you're terminally fucking unavailable. Send the painting back. I need to destroy it with the most violent method available. I don't want any trace of my feelings for you to exist. I want them wiped from the face of the Earth. Fuck. Off. 9:32 p.m. - 2003-04-20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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