Monday, May 31, 2010

Goodbye Asylum.

So the Asylum has fallen.

I feel like I could quote a shit ton of EA's lyrics and throw them back at her, but I'm refraining. I WILL be mature about this, I WILL... lashing out solves little to nothing...

Why does this bother me so much? It's just html. It's just BBCode. Pretty, but that's basically it. I guess I felt as though we had finally achieved utopia. You know, the Asylum would have been just fine if she went and left it alone. But in the end, it's her house and we were all simply guests she invited in. Now she's taking her house back. I guess when she said 'we're taking back the asylum', she was talking about herself. Who knows? She could refer to herself in first person plural, just like I do.

This is hilarious. It really is. It's book worthy and I think I will do something with it. It's tragic, it's nerve wrecking. God, who cares WHY this is a bad idea for her, we ALL KNOW why this is a bad idea. But I won't be some bloody musician's plaything and financial support if she just reats me like SHIT. I'm stronger than that, I'm BETTER than that.

God damn, what have I feel doing. Idolizing a woman who can shred on violin and write good music. Yeah, you know what? She's good. But I'm good also. Hell, I could be better. What have I been doing, standing still in time. Going broke buying her shit when I could have bought a Korg by now.

The truth? When I become famous, I will NEVER do something so horrible to my fan base. I will treat them properly with the respect they deserve. NOT like pets. NOT openly using them for marketing purposes.

I am stronger than this. I am so much stronger...

Saturday, May 29, 2010


There is a misery in being old that I never wish to understand.

My father and I went up to CT today, but stopped off to visit his Aunt and Uncle along the way. Aunt Esta and Uncle Wally are rich. Rich rich rich. They live in an upper floor apartment on Park Avenue and have servants. They tour places in Europe whenever they are bored. Of course they'd be members of a high class country club in Weschester county.

No car in that lot was under $60,000. Everyone was high class. Everyone. The place was real ritzy, the majority of the servers were from Europe. And they were ALL gorgeous. Two of the girls were even my type and made me blush whenever I looked over which is AMAZING because I am incredibly picky. One red head from France and a girl with Indian origins from the UK. (She even had a London accent!) But I get off topic.

Anyway, we were eating with my Aunt and Uncle. The entire time, Aunt Esta was talking about people who had died. "Well, my best friend had died from cancer last year in November and see that woman there? That's so-and-so and her husband died three years ago. And that woman there is So-and-so, I invite her to eat with us because she's widowed. This place has really changed. Back in the day, I would dine regularly with all my friends, but they've all died or moved to Florida to die." And so on.

After eating, they decided to lounge around outside by the pool. I was watching my Aunt tremble as she walked (for, she was diagnosed with cancer and the chemo has taken a toll on her) when we bumped into her friend Tippi. She joined us and we lounged around, the servers fawning over us, always checking up on us. Bringing us drinks and being amazing. I was shocked over how my Great Aunt and Uncle were complaining about the service - we were being treated like Kings.

My Aunt complained about a lot of things. The kids in the pool and the fact that Tippi wasn't covered by the beach umbrella - she called a server over there to adjust it a few times. Tippi finally said:

"You didn't have to do that Esta, I'm fine."

"I'm here for you, Tippi."

"I know, and I treasure that more than anything in the world."

"You have no one left, Tippi."

"Yes but, what can you really do about it?"

Monday, May 24, 2010

I'm incredibly frightened right now. I have to monitor my mania because I keep going up. I...

I really want to get laid O-o

I seriously want to fall in love right now and have mind blowing hard core sex. I am slightly horny, I just feel so efhuikjnesdgfhviukjewgdsvihu;kjwesd

I just booked a trip to phili today that I can NOT afford. To take pictures of the VKA. I signed up for all these fic exchanges today all due in the same week. God, I want to get laid.

Like, now.

And I'm at the state where I will jump on the first person who introduces herself to me.

I've been thinking.

I had always been good at acting. My face would shift into any facial expression I could conjure, my voice could quiver with withheld agony and I'd create a dozen new people to take on. I never noticed all that could slip away. Hell, up until recently, I could cry on cue.

Yesterday, I was out with a very good friend of mine on a friend date. All was well, we were merry. It was great seeing him - I hadn't seen him in months. Then the topic of my ex was somehow brought up. That's cool, she's not an alien topic to me. I talk about her all the time between mutual friends.

I told him I had never put my hands under her shirt. He paused and he was like "I did" and I paused but then died laughing. (He meant prior to when she and I were dating). So, I laughed, told him he was wonderful, but and uncomfortable feeling settled inside of me. I felt it all the way home and it kept me up last night while I was in bed.

Why did I care? I dislike her immensely. The fact that I ever wanted her disgusts me. And yet, muted within, I feel that same hollow echo. Not as green as envy, not as red as anger... but brown. I realized that I hadn't felt this way for a long time, not since he told me it would be best if I just stopped thinking about her. Slowly, I began layering myself. It was the only way I couldn't live in a maddening agony every second of my life.


Now I'm this. I can't shift my face, can't quiver my voice. I'm slow to think, my memory has gone to shit. I don't think at all, I just am. I push away all thoughts as if they will be the end of me. I scream my current feelings in all caps but forget about them moments later. Like I have two selves - safe and cold, or lively and agonizing.

Can I really handle being lively at my current state? Sometimes, I feel as though these thoughts are just the mania doing its job. I don't want to wind up worse off than I am.

I will admit something though - I'm mostly afraid of turning warm again because something inside me tells me I will fall back into infatuation with V_ again. Though it makes no sense. She's a bitch, lazy, taking, fair weathered, a liar, self absorbed, selfish... What IS it about her that drew me to her?

Damn damn damndamndamn, as I type this, I feel my self destructive agonizing me clawing at within my chest.

See my predicament? God damn. Like the only way I could get over her is to throw myself at someone else.

Fucking mania. GO AWAYYYY.

Wait, actually.


Saturday, May 22, 2010

I'm not going to assume I know what's up with me.

My mind is racing. I'm immortal one moment, helpless the next. I want to say that this is still part of a very long 'mixed phase', but I feel as though I've lost all knowledge of those words.

I'm going to exploseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee he heh ehehehehehehehehehehehe fuck.


1. Make this list. Do not get distracted.

2. CLEAN YOUR ROOM. It's a hell hole and something tells me that this just adds to the reasons of why I'm so glitchy.

3. Set up a space for sewing. The sooner I start this, the sooner I can dress as I was always meant to dress - as a woman from the 1920s and 1930s

4. Do friend's essay that he is paying you to do

5. Study music. You wont get anywhere in life if you don't prepare for your dreams

6. Mind over matter. I know it's tiring and it makes you want to hang yourself, but if you don't think about it, nothing can go wrong.

7. Don't downtalk yourself. Don't say "This is just another burst of mania that will leave in a second" because even if it is, oh fucking well - you're doing SOMETHING, aren't you?

Alright then!

Oh, and also - get some fucking clothing on.
I want to break shit.

I really, really do. And I've always known I wanted to break things, just never realized that this impulse is constant.

My tightening grip on a door handle, the aggravation when I push open shower curtains, how I tug the covers around me when I go to bed, yes. This is what it's like to stop yourself from destroying everything in your wake.

Upon more thought, I am considering a conclusion of this being one of the reasons I self injure and one of the reasons I am immensely suicidal. It's when I want to rip things apart the most that I begin wondering how painful it would be to hang myself and start shredding my leg to bits.

It's been implanted into all of us that when we're in a house or restaurant, we must use our inside voices. We must be careful when handling knives and we must be gentle when handling fragile objects. My remaining impulse has always been to shatter them, but I've controlled it. Of course then I would turn to destroying myself.

I'm violent, I will admit. I enjoy rough housing; I've always enjoyed sparring with people and when I'm alone, I fight graphic battles in my head. I sometimes ask people what they imagine doing when they're angry or upset. They reply that they beat people up in their minds. I wonder what they'd think about me if I told them I torture my victims, whether innocent or guilty, in graphic detail before killing them. It's the only thing that can calm me down.

But after a while, I run out of energy and my father calls me to do chores around the house and every object I place I want to simply throw down, to see it shatter into hundreds of pieces before turning to the walls and beating them in with his antique metallic jugs or chairs. Destruction, destruction destruction destruction! That is what I want, what I need! I feel as though it may be the only thing that can save me from myself.

I've been eying more plastic bags, I have them laying around my room now just in case. I left a suicide message on the answering machine of my stepmom's cell phone the other day before I attempted. But the endorphins kicked in and I ripped the bag from my face - it's amazing, the defenses your body sets up. I had been expecting it the third time and STILL I ripped the bag from my face. It's as if deep down, I don't really want to die.

"Life gets better" they say, yeah, but then it goes to even worse shit than before. "But you have so much to give" but you aren't giving me back as much.

Fact: I'm a brilliant writer.

Fact: I'm a brilliant singer

Fact: I pick up on things faster than others

Fact: I am hilarious

Fact: I make people feel good

Fact: When I dress up, I am gorgeous

Fact: I am talented enough to influence the world

Fact: None of this helps me at all.

Yes, this is all wonderful. But none of it makes me happy. Not for longer than a day at most. Everyday I am living an infernal existence and I have NO REASON for feeling this way. I am miserable. I force myself out of bed, I force myself to stay AWAY from bed (right now, I am failing), I cant tell anymore when I'm up or down, death seems like a much better option that life.

Sylvia Plath once called this sort of existence a 'bell jar'. And you know, she's right. I don't think she could be any farther from the truth. I'm always being watched, you know. But this predicament is one sided and I can never join in.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Suicide Hotline Trial 2

Second time was a lot better than the first.

The lady on the other end was very caring and affectionate. She didn't stop between sentences, she was human.

She made me promise not to hurt myself anymore today and she was so nice, I may just hold onto my promise to her.

She told me to tell my therapist about all this, but the truth is that he worries so much. He might contact the hospital and I don't want to go there. What would he say if he knew I tried to suffocate myself today 3 times? Stupid endorphins - if it weren't for them, I'd be comfortable and dead by now.

I told myself over and over my mind was just playing tricks on me. Perhaps drowning would be a better alternative to plastic bags.
I'm not okay.
My garbage bag had holes in it. I didn't notice until 7 minutes later when I realized that while breathing had become harder, it wasn't getting any worse.

I feel light headed, I am dizzy, but I have no means of obtaining another garbage bag and my razor is too small to cut through more than a couple layers of skin.

It's funny - as I was laying there, I was comfortable waiting for blackness. Anxious, but mostly comfortable. I then began to think "All the poetry running through my head, wouldn't it be wonderful to show it to someone one day? To let people know what it's like to feel your breath becoming more forced, how your head perspires in sweat from the heat of your breath." Even in death, my mind is my enemy. Tempting me to stop.

But, alas, my bag had holes in it. Alas, alas.
I've left everything undone.

I have a million regrets, but not enough to stop me from wanting to do this. Breathing hurts me now and my bones are shattered from being thrown against the ground and ceiling. There is more obstacle for me than road. All my life, I've wondered if it's worth it.

Not breathing feels more comforting than breathing for me right now. How lovely it seems to not breathe at all...

I no longer with for legacy. Just sleep.

I don't expect the world to understand.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Suicide Hotline

Guess what I did today?

If you said 'Called a Suicide Hotline', then you are correct!

How I feel about them? Well, take a look.

Suicide Hotlines are basically people who probably need no more than 4 years of college trained in psychology operating a national hotline. The woman I spoke to was very nice, but here's the thing - I could hear her technique.

She was very young, first off. I'd say she was around... 23-25 years old. The technique is basically to distract the person who is suicidal until they don't feel that way anymore. My favourite part was when she told me the people around me would care if I died.

I replied "That's the thing - I don't CARE if they'll care. When you're dead, it doesn't matter."

"Do you think no one would care if you died?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that when you're dead, whether people care about you or not is irrelevant. I know it's incredibly selfish, but I don't care at this point."

Again, she tried using my empathy against me. Oh, but wait. I don't HAVE empathy so it was a shitty tactic.

At the end of our conversation, she then used this tactic "Can you promise me something? Promise me after we hang up, you will not commit suicide." I can understand that this is protocol for ending all suicide hotline conversations. But it's not like I'll hold onto this promise as if it's the only thing I have in the world. My friends, I am sitting on a blanket. Under that blanket is a high quality down comforter. Underneath that down comforter is a bed that I screwed a girl on until she screamed her lungs out. Rather than having NOTHING in the world, I can have ANYTHING in the world. Treasuring a promise doesn't quite work for me.

But I told her "I don't have the time to kill myself anymore. My friends will be here soon." She was hesitant, but it was better than a 'no'.

We hung up.

End conversation.

Meh, it was worth a shot.

Monday, May 10, 2010


Battered between the floor and ceiling
I no longer have bones to break anymore.
How pathetic it is to complain about something so simple as breathing
My mind is a plague of destructive and murderous thoughts
Whether against others or myself
I have forgotten what it's like to feel carefree and happy

Even the voices have left me.
Even the one I had grown most fond of
We spoke only once but
She was the ideal girl I had painted since I hit puberty

Life is hell
Life is a nightmare
Life is living amongst the living but not living yourself
Life is a sham
Life is sadistic
Life... is something I was never cut out for.

Why me.
Why these genes in this combination
Why this soul in this body in this situation.

Someone begged me today not to kill myself.
He said it was alright to want to as long as I didn't finish the job.
He is my best friend.

And the horrible thing is: I think I'm past the point of caring.
I wonder if I should be thankful for my vanity.

Yesterday was Mother's Day. As a gift, I had gotten her the lipstick Ruby Woo (Which she applied incorrectly and tried to hide her distaste for it). We both agreed it looked better on me... I was sort of hoping that she'd give it back to me.

So I had this lovely lipstick on my lips and because I was cold, my mother let me wear her olive windbreaker. Usually her clothing is much too large, but this jacket was only a little too large and to be honest, it looked kind of nice. Really nice, actually.

We spent a good 3 hours gardening. The lipstick began to wear off and while mom was off doing things, I took a good look in the full length mirror...

The jacket opened up at the top sort of like a military uniform would. I unzipped it slightly so you could just see the back lace of my shirt underneath. At the angle I was standing at, I could see a tease of my collarbone and a bit more before it ran under the security of my jacket.

I thought "If I die, this will all go away." The gold of my skin, the black of the lace and the olive of the jacket... what a beautiful combination of colours it was. The shadows and the highlighting intensifying it all the more.

I love colours. It's one of the three things that can turn me on (the others being sound and words).

I wonder what would have happened to me if I didn't try that jacket on.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

I'm sick of the ups and the downs, I don't know where I am anymore. I'm confused, I'm energetic, I'm depressed, I'm excited, I'm a wreck I have no future.

I've never been so bad in my entire life. My leg is a cross hatch of red my mind drifts to any method of suicide, which is the least painful way to go. Which would kill me the quickest so I can't be caught. Just to end all the ups and downs, just to get of this roller coaster ride, I just want out.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

I hate my bipolar disorder.

I don't find it fair that while some women are raped on a daily/weekly basis, children watch their families murdered before their eyes because of their totalitarian government, people are dying from hunger because of poverty and I just lie in my nice cozy bed all day in complete and utter woe. How pathetic I feel, as I lay here.

All my life, my dad's family has preached to me about being self efficient - my stepmom, a person who I loved more than anyone else in the entire world, was the most self dependent person I ever met in the entire world. So why this? I know I'm smart, but each day I sit rotting away, I feel my intelligence rotting with me...

I read half as fast as I used to. I can't remember information from hours ago, fuck it, I can't even bare to get out of bed. Me typing this is my attempt at dragging myself out, even if I'm only sitting up.

I write my blog always. Even when I'm not at the computer I hear words. Words words words words words. I like words. I always have. I just wish I could do more with them than complain.

A lot of bipolars have it worse than me so why the fuck do I wallow so much?

I wish I could be more like Katy Hepburn... All her life she was motivated by "I'll show them....I'll show them... I'll show them..." Mind over matter. She just kept going and going and couldn't bare to stay still. It sounds simple - if after the first month of constant moving forward, will it become easier? Will I become numb to this undertow...?

The Bell Jar

I gave in last night.

I couldn't not. I was expecting my mania to last longer; it usually last longer than a week at least. But it didn't. It was a very short burst. It was almost feeling... 'normal' and teetering on the edge of mania.

All of a sudden, my solid ground turned sand and I began sinking. It was maddening. I was in the car with my father when it happened and as soon as I felt it, I stopped mid sentence but then picked up where I left off. Usually my mixed phases last a few days. This one only lasted a few hours.

I tried to distract myself. Read funny comics, spoke to people. I hate my scars so why would I wish to create more? But I kept feeling that pulsing... that feeling dragging me under and pushing up against my flesh screaming to be released, and really - what could I do?

I told my friends goodnight and went to my locker-bureau. I couldn't find my razor.

I was sent into a frenzy of panic. Where was it? I moved aside all my clothing, eventually emptied the damn thing and still could NOT find my razor. Eventually, I found it on the floor with my clothing. The desperation turned my want to cut into need.

In the end, I discarded the old razor and picked up a new one (which in the end, turned out to cut so much cleaner) and sat on my bed, beginning to draw out the cuts. I always go slow at first and don't break the skin. Ironic as this sounds coming from a self injurer, I'm scared of pain. I hate it.

After a while though, pain DOES become bearable...

I made a few cuts on my inner thigh and watched the blood dribble to the surface. I slowly began making my way outward. I slowly gave in to where I truly wanted to cut - my leg. Not my inner thigh, but my leg. I didn't fucking care if it would be visible while I wore a bakini, I just... I NEEDED it.

Let me tell you how amazing it was. It was a hell of a lot more comfortable than my inner thigh! But then it began nicking... nerves, I believe. I couldn't help but gasp at how amazing it felt... (to think slicing through skin could actually bring pleasure) and as the pulses of ecstasy died down, I thought "Now I know why people believe in their own madness... this must be how it feels to be mad."


The other day, I was in the car with my sister. I hadn't seen her in months because she goes to school in Ohio. We decided to have lunch at a nice Thai place; my Pad Thai came with some egg in it, but I thought that the harm was already done, may as well not complain and just eat it. (In the end, I couldn't eat the egg because I felt so sad). My sister began talking to me about the women in Ohio who were trafficked. I did the stupid thing and asked her what trafficking was.

"It's sex slavery." She said and I immediately understood. She then began saying it was prostitution which I countered with "No, it isn't. You have a choice to prostitute yourself to an extent. Sex slavery, you're locked away and brought out to a surprise person each time and then thrown back into your cell." She then replied that as a prostitute, aren't the conditions the same?

"Yes." I said. "To an extent. In the end, you always have the final say. There is a DIFFERENCE between trafficking and prostitution, Leah. Otherwise, both actions would have the same name. These two words aren't synonyms."

We began talking about other things when she saw me push the egg aside. My sister gave an obviously dramatic sigh.

"Oh Sarah, why are you a vegan? You should put your efforts towards a more worthy cause..." Oh no she wasn't - "Like, save the whales if you have to - but what about all the homeless and trafficked women in Ohio? Why not save them..."

At this point, I put my hand on her knee and smiled a quirky smile. "Leah, I'm going to be completely honest with you - I like animals a hell of a lot more than I like people."

She gave me a smile as if she knew what was best for me and replied "Yes... and that's what's so sad."


I began reading Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar." It's strange... to see someone writing down words that you've thought and felt for practically all of your teenage years in the exact words you've thought them in. Sometimes, I do believe in reincarnation.


Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I spoke to my sister on the phone last night, before I did anything. I told her not to pick me up this morning. I told her "I'm going down." and there was silence from her end.

Finally she said "But is that really what's best for you?" I told her that when I get like this, all I want to do is sleep and sleep... "Yes, but is that really what's best for you?" She asked yet again, and then pushed forward. "I think it's better for you to be around other people. You shouldn't be left alone."

Exhausted, I replied "Leah, when I'm out, all I'll want to do is sleep. I don't have the energy to pretend right now."

"Call me tomorrow. And tell me then if you want me to pick you up or not."

Doesn't she understand that I hate being around people when I'm this way? That THIS is when I get bitchy, defensive. This is when I want to be alone but when she, my mother and my brother are all together, it's constant tug of war between the three of them and I have only two arms.

She always speaks to me as if she knows better. Because she's sat through ONE psych class, she knows what's BEST for a manic depressive and I hate to bitch, but while she's been sitting through one semester with only one or two weeks covering manic depression, I've had it for YEARS, so fuck off.

Maybe if for ONCE people left me alone, I wouldn't feel so awful.

Monday, May 3, 2010

The Ex

Here's what's pissing me off.

I considered my last relationship another failed relationship. But in a way, I felt as though it was the greatest failure of all. Sure, unlike all the others I never loved her - hell, I didn't really care for her. She could have died and if she left me a fortune, at least I'd have the money, But here's the thing - feeling that way was WHY I consider if the greatest failure of all.

I despised myself after the breakup. Yes, I wanted the breakup as badly as she did - even more so. I couldn't stand to be around her. Was she a bad person? No. I didn't think so. Did she do something to hurt me? Not that I knew of. I just couldn't stand pretending. At night, when she'd come to bed, I'd be in one of my deepest downphases. She wouldn't take no for an answer, I had to satisfy her before she fell to sleep. The entire time, I just wanted to curl up and cry... I would see her out of duty of being a girlfriend. It was a qualification. It came with the package.

She told me she knew what bipolar disorder was. She told me she understood.

She told me a lie.

She didn't know the word 'downphase'. She didn't understand the extent of mania. She didn't realize that sometimes... sometimes I could just fly...

We started dating when I was coming up from a downphase. I think she was used to me becoming happier and happier. But then I fell. She told me she would be there to catch me. I was just stupid for believing her.

I could see it then... and I can see it now... her telling her friends that I'm just not there anymore. That now she has to get me in the mood to do any experimenting. How she shyly tells them she she's never been able to make me come... though that was mostly her fault. It doesn't matter how aroused I was, she was just god awful. She doesn't know that the one time I came at her hands, it was because I was fantasizing about someone else... someone who doesn't even exist. Someone with pale hair and blue eyes. A ghostly palour and the warmest most beautiful smile... a character I created in a book. The lover of my main character I stole my name from, Kiska. Her name is Fakir. In the book, Fakir grew up and changed... but in my fantasy, I focused on when she was still untouched by the icy cold understanding of fate and how it is inescapable. I came at the thought of her smile.

She broke up with me because I was never around. Well gee, I wonder why. I don't think it's unrealistic that I wanted to avoid her and how dirty she could make me feel. (I had told her multiple times that I wasn't in the mood... that I didn't like always necking and that I'd prefer talking. She'd reply that we had been talking for an hour already.) I broke up with her for the obvious reason as stated above. And because she was arrogant. And because she was racist.

I just didn't realize how large of a hypocrite she was.

Even in my upphase, I was worried. My Mother is a notorious cheater. When happy, I am a lustful person. I always desire touch. I was scared that since her blood ran through my veins, her actions did as well... I had told Ryssa this fear of betrayal and she laughed saying "As long as you're worried about it, it means you will try your hardest to not be like her." I never found anyone I would cheat on her with, but I made a conscious effort to think up scenarios in case I did. In the end, I would always resist. Perhaps sometimes I'd come close to giving in... but I'd be good. Part of this fear branched from my first ex who always told me I was a horrible person. Again, it's my fault for believing it.

But then I found out...

She told me today. Ryssa, I mean. She told me she kissed her roomate while we were dating. And it wasn't a platonic kiss as in the VKA, oh no, she really really liked this boy. I'm sure she dreamt about running away with him.

I laughed it off, a bit in shock. She told me she didn't know if I considered it cheating. I shook off the answer with "You always said you hated bisexuals. Now you're turning into everything you hate - tell me, are you French too?" All her racist comments about the French... they drove me insane. I doubt she had ever met a French person.

She laughed it off and finished the conversation. It took a while for it to hit me.

I hated myself ever since the breakup.

I blamed myself. Sure, I knew she was being a hormonal arse, but still I blamed myself. I felt as though there was something wrong with me, that it was my bipolar. That NO ONE could ever love me because I felt this way and in return, I could never love them. Never feel connected, always feel that that short coming was from MY end. These scars on my legs because I felt as though I was scum - she knows not internal solitude. All this time worried and beating myself up over what I held inside, what had not yet happened and she had already gone through with something I dreaded not even having the balls to tell me.

Not even having the balls to tell me THAT is what gets me!!! Lack of communication from my side? Bull shit! Bull FUCKING shit! I TOLD her when I wanted to kiss Veronica... if she said 'no', whether I would have done it or not in the end I would have told her the next time I saw her.

How stupid I feel.

No, I never liked Ryssa. No, I never cared for her. No, I would never date her again. But that doesn't stop me from feeling like a blundering idiot.

Surely it makes sense to feel this way? It's events like these that remind me that it's safer to just keep my distance.

What if next time, I really like a person? And I do all those things that I did with her?

What if in the end, the outcome is the same?

I feel as though some part of me that must be still alive would scream out its final agony. Scream it as if EVERYONE could hear it and when it realizes they can't, it will just scream some more...

My future has no room for a lover anyway, so I'm safe.

Music. Stick to music. We don't have room for a bloody lover.