The urge right now is to write a lot of pointless emails. It's a very strong urge. I clamp down on it firm, like so. I say to myself, T, you will not email him; that would be entirely uninvited annoyance. I say to myself, T, there is no reason for you to behave in this childish and attention-seeking manner. I say to myself, T, there is a reason he is not talking to you, and you will not die if you do not find out what the reason is.
I say to myself, and I recall other pointless emails and a Santa promise and I am very close to tears. (this is the point at which I say, Ha! And what else is new?)
It strikes me as odd that even the familiarity of the repetitions never seems to lessen the ache in the stomach the least bit. Did you know I used to write messages couched in stupid poems the first time around? One of those poems, it won me a prize.
Is there a better use to put misery to? I doubt it.
Fun fact: Angst is synonymous with anxiety.
I wish he were here. I wish he were here.
I say to myself, and I recall other pointless emails and a Santa promise and I am very close to tears. (this is the point at which I say, Ha! And what else is new?)
It strikes me as odd that even the familiarity of the repetitions never seems to lessen the ache in the stomach the least bit. Did you know I used to write messages couched in stupid poems the first time around? One of those poems, it won me a prize.
Is there a better use to put misery to? I doubt it.
Fun fact: Angst is synonymous with anxiety.
I wish he were here. I wish he were here.
