DISCLAIMER: Sorry about the profanity. Raw emotion sort of gets me riled up. And bookworm4444 - it's fiction. Relax. Breathe. DO not get angry. I just used real events to get the story. Shhhhh. Stop yelling at the computer, because I know you are. Be happy, be healthy, be cheerios =)
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It's one thirteen in the fucking a.m. and I just want to go to sleep. That's impossible, though, because stupid insomnia has got me in its death grip again. I'm so tired of being hurt by the people I love the most. Yeah, that's right - I still love him. So what? Why not? It's only been a day.
Oh my God, only a day? Only a measly twenty-four hours since a whole section of my life ended? Six months with that guy, that amazing, lovely guy, and now it's over. Six months. We couldn't have tried to make it work? He couldn't have argued with me over being friends? He couldn't have lied and said he still wanted to be more? What's wrong with us? How could he have loved me if he can let me go that easy?
I'm tired. I'm tired of asking myself these questions. I'm tired of missing him, even though I've only been missing him for twenty-someodd hours. There's never going to be anybody else like him. Ever.
I remember the first time I heard him tell me he loved me. It was in Kohl's. If I don't remember our Kohl's escapades when I read this next, then I'm in sad shape. We hid in the clothes racks and waited for the shhh, shhh, shhh of his mother's carriage's wheels to fade away, then crawled out and held each other and argued quietly, laughingly, about who loved who more. That was the most fun I've had in years. The aquarium, when I was "protecting" him from the sharks, but really all he was trying to do was get me closer to him. I knew that was what he was doing all along, but I played along because I wanted to be closer to him. I swear to God, that boy could turn on a goldfish. I remember the Mystik Village, when those old people thought we were statues because we were so still when we were holding each other. I was only being so still because I was trying to remember how to breathe while simultaneously attempting to decide whether or not to let him kiss me if he tried. He didn't try. Or at least, I didn't notice that he tried. I remember . . . Sitting with him on the bus and running my fingers up his leg. He asked me what I was doing - I lied and said I had no clue, then stopped. What I was really trying to do was turn him on half as much as he turned me on. He put my hand back on his leg when I took it off. Like I said, the boy could make a invertabrate - which are usually asexual - crazy. I remember lying on the field with him, my hand over his heart, feeling his b.p.m patterns underneath my palm. His heart beat awful fast, that much will always be a clear memory. We watched the clouds and talked about nothing. We . . . What else did we do that was fun that day? I threw an uncapped bottle of water at my loser ex-boyfriend and we ran, hand in hand, as far as I could go without collapsing. We argued about being figments of each other's imagination. I remember it being really cold and cuddling into his side, his arm around me. I remember what his arms felt like around my waist, I remember what his lips felt like against my cheek. I remember what his hand felt like in mine, I remember how insanely good it felt when he ran his thumb lightly over the backs of my hands. I remember how his voice sounded when he told me he loved me. I don't have to remember loving him, because I always will.
Now it's one thirty-three in the motherfucking morning and I still can't sleep. Now I'm thinking about him too much. I can't stop. I can't listen to certain songs. I can't write about certain things. I haven't cried yet, but I suspect that I will. The shock hasn't really hit me yet, so I guess I'll just keep writing the truth until I realize it.
It's over.
It's over.
It's over.
It's over.
It's over.
It's over.
It's over.
It's over I fucked up he's never going to look at me the same way with those pretty pretty eyes ever again, that way that made me happy and scared me at the same time because I fucked up oh God how I fucked up.
He's never going to tell me he loves me or give me a hug or tackle me to the ground or make fun of an old announcer guy with me or hold me so tight I can't breathe or make me smile ever ever ever again.
I fucked up. I'm fucked over. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I don't want to have my memories, I want to have him. I'm gonna go nuts like this! I already am nuts! Whoever else is reading this - I mean geeze! Is this not psycho? I NEED HIM. There, I said it. He makes me normal. I like being normal.
It's one forty two in the goddamn motherfucking morning, and my eyes hurt like a bitch.
I will not sleep tonight, because it's over.
I will not dream if I do sleep, because it's over.
If I dream, they'll be nightmares tonight, because it's over.
It's over because I lost him, because I can't make anyone happy.
I can't make anyone happy because I'm a failure as a girlfriend.
I'm a failure as a girlfriend because I'm screwed up.
Why am I screwed up? That's the only one I can't figure out. I'm my own psychologist now. I gotta stop talking to my guy friends so much because I'm afraid the whole thing from last year will repeat itself, and I'm not doing that again.
I'm not making any sense, and I'm topic-skipping, so I guess I'm going to go now. It's one forty six in the morning, and I miss him to fucking death.
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I guess the only reason I'm writing one of these again is because I forgot to write down the whole corn maze experience . . . How could I write about my memories and not write about the corn maze?
We were with his family, which wasn't the best thing ever, but we ran away whenever we heard them, so it wasn't all bad. He led me through that fucking thing for three hours. I hate corn. I hate the outdoors. I hate his family. That was the most amazing date I have ever had. Whenever the paths were too narrow to walk two abreast, he walked behind me and rubbed my shoulders. Whenever the paths weren't too narrow to walk two abreast, he held my hand and randomly stopped to wrap his arms around me. When we finally got out of the corn - the vicious, Stephen King-esque corn - we sat down on a bench-type-thing and he just held me. That was the last time he told me he loved me and meant it. I know it.
Everything stopped working after that.
Now here we are, hardly even able to think of something to say over the fucking computer. Not face to face - he can't even hear emotion in my voice. Typing.
I hate this.
Shoot me now and get it over with.
