In which writing about it makes it worse

“I sold my guitar and my piano
I thought that it was these that kept me low
I thought if only I could try and change
That all my pain would be in yesterday.”

— Michelle Featherstone, “Coffee and Cigarettes”

Yeah, I’m back on the cigarettes. Never left the coffee. I was wondering whether not blogging made me a happier person, since the really intense emotions have started taking over again that I never dreamed I’d feel again. But I can sell my pens and notebooks and my domain, and it wouldn’t change the fact that things aren’t perfect. But talking/typing about them, however, seems to amplify that fact, rather than helping me to process, as it has done in the past.

I think the thing about finding love-or-something-like-it is that you don’t know how incomplete you can feel until that day comes (or, rather, GOES).

I can look at him now, when I do see him, and not feel bad anymore. I am thrilled for the dreams I had because my imagination was pretty dead during my year of freelance between jobs. Not so thrilled that I think we frittered away a veritable fuckload of potential. It’s one thing if it just didn’t work. It’s another, the way it did unfold.

And I ask the universe, what gives? Did you forget about me? Do you not love me? Why do some people have it all (theirs AND others’) and the rest of us are left with nothing?

Now of course, God either has something better in mind, or He realizes we both have a LOT of work to do on ourselves, or both. But I wish there were some way to erase the whole past and start over. Not that I would have done *much* differently — I yam who I yam and no amount of hindsight will change that.

But I guess we always wonder whether we’d changed just one variable, how it would have altered the outcome.

Of course, this ain’t square on my shoulders. I could be a better person but it still wouldn’t change what needs to change most.

I just wish I could stop dwelling. But I have two months’ worth of tirades to work through. So, you know, deal with it. 😉

I just hate that the friendship is so tenuous at best. Because if that’s where we’re better off, and I am MORE THAN OK WITH THAT, it’s not a full friendship anymore and THAT is what bothers me.

Will we ever get to normal when we never actually were … although we were pretty damn close … closer than I’ve ever been with anyone?

Goddess, Paris. Find a hot Frenchman and forget about all these American boys whose worldviews are as expansive as the small town you all live in now. ..

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