moving times

Today I came home full of resolutions to reform my sad-ass emo ways. And then I did a search in gmail to find the first time I wrote a person about a book and ended up reading a lot of old communication instead.
I am terrible in the beginnings of friendships. And at the ends.
I come off as such an eager love-starved poseur. It's disgusting. DISGUSTING, I say. I am ashamed to read the things I say. ASHAMED. There aren't enough upper case words to express my disgust.
He did write nice letters, though. I wish he hadn't stopped.


I resolutely refuse to write him. I am keeping the resolutions admirably. It has been...two and a half days! ohmigosh ossum!
I am very proud of myself.


Here is the oddity: I wrote more honestly when I wasn't worrying what he felt about me. Why is irony so ingrained in everything I do?

twice over

why can't you write? would it kill you to drop a line? probably yes. this is a good thing. all negative qualities must serve as warnings. this is paw all over again, and catspaw is not a happy prospect. really, it's not. the future is not hard to imagine if one uses the right parameters.

look, you. it's time you stopped with the obsessions with the boys from that particular combination of places. please, T. no amount of teasing from friends and pleasant lunch-time discussions and veiled confessions will change the facts.
THE FACTS.

mewl. :( I don't like the facts.

how many

Ends are painful. I like ends that are ends, though. There is closure.

Papa Santa needs to be forgiven. Can I? Not for a while, I think.

Three to two, if that. What becomes of all my loves? In this moment at half past two in the morning I can say I will be fine in spite of. Tomorrow, I may not believe it.

It is easier when others take the decisions out of your hands. Oh, my T. Is independence such a scary thought? Yes, and yes. Do you hate me now?