Despertar

fucking shit god damn it

I know how behind I am on, yeah, everything. Working as fast as I can.

Three sheets to the wind. Four, maybe. I spent the whole day talking myself out of getting irresponsibly drunk because I knew it spelled disaster: In my head, I was already drafting whiny text messages. Inexcusable Katyish behavior. Then, come twelve-thirty, I'm drunk, and can't stop myself from sending the least whiny but most potentially damaging text message of all.

Two words. No context, no subtext, no implicit tone. Response invited. Please disrespect me. Please degrade me. Please drive it home, this conclusion I've already drawn that I and my feelings are worthless. Accept and you cheapen me. Decline and you spurn me. An entirely lose-lose proposition.

I just...want to die. Over a man. Again! And I should clean my room instead but who gives a shit what's on the floor when, how can this be the world we're living in, where some people can work toward their ideals (Tina's Newsweek, Valerie's jetsetting European fantasy, Brandon's fiscal autonomy/rice cooker) and there isn't a single thing I want more than whatever unattainable jerkoff human I'm focused on?

We have company this weekend. There are two French girls twittering over T-Pain videos in my living room. How does one twitter? Exactly? When this is what we have to work with?

Aaron: "I wish you weren't thinking about this all the time."

I mean, me too. I just, God damn it.

*

"Free later?"