Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chickens get a taste of your meat. Show me the person that doesn't love the smell of wet concrete, I'll show you the person who is dead. . . . Look. I don't care if this IS a free country. And, I don't care if this IS the free internet. And, I really don't care if this IS free DiaryLand. I tried to explain to Non DiaryLand users this morning why I was huffing and puffing about my work this morning. I tried to explain to them how upset I was, and how I had EVERY GODDAMNED RIGHT TO BE. I tried, and frankly, it sounds very immature and selfish. It sounds like I can't share, that I have no self control, and that I am a complete psycho. . . . See, honey... when you walked away from me in the electronic void, you walked away from this. To the day. You gave it up. Since, you can't email. You can't make a phone call. And that's fine. I've gotten over that, Bebe. The thing is, going back, coming back here... it's like you're asking me, and asking the internet, and asking DiaryLand to take you back. The truth is I have no say. Nothing I type here will reach you. Because you aren't reading. You're writing. And you're being your usual selfish prick by coming back. This place just isn't big enough for the both of us, and not because I really am a bitch. But because you handled this like a stuborn 21 year old. You pissed all over the place, instead of following through on your hollow promises of friendship. I'm considering a trip to Washington, just to: A) Scare the living fuck out of you. and B) To slap the taste out yo mouth. So, fuck you, you fucking useless bastard. I hate you. And that hate is the most comforting emotion I've had in months. 8:38 p.m. - 2003-06-25 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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