There's a difference between what people want and what they need.
It's not the difference a dictionary tells you--a need isn't just shelter and food and water. People don't all have the same uniform needs, because we're all different. No one is the same. Maybe they're similar, but they're not the same.
A prime example, the one I have in mind, leads straight to the source of it all: Death. They say you need things so as to avoid death and continue on living. Medically they say you can't die of heartbreak, yet people have. You lose the will to live, to bother just staying alive, and nothing is worth it anymore. You're just a bunch of fragments now, the broken soul of a once perfectly whole person. Because, despite what people may say or think, you needed that other person to survive. You didn't just want them to be there, they had to be there or you couldn't be.
Sometimes what you need is to get away from something or someone. You don't just want them to go away; it is entirely necessary for your survival that you get away from them, and when you can't, you break. You try to hide away from them, but you just can't escape, and it's scary, because there's no way to be alone. Try as you might, they're always there. It's like torture, never-ending torture, and nothing feels the same, nothing that made you happy can make you happy anymore. You're frightened, you're broken, and there's no way out.
And other times what you need is clarity, explanation. Because now you don't know what to do, and you've come to the crossroads but have no idea what to choose. That can be even more terrifying, because making the wrong choice can kill you. And the enormity of the decision makes you want to curl up and sob, and just get away from the world, but you can't. There's no respite until you make the choice. So you live in that limbo until you're forced to choose, live as a half-entity, just struggling to make it through the day. Or maybe you can't endure the wait. That's when you choose quickly to get it over with, and spend that time regretting. Nothing feels right anymore.
But lastly there's the need to impress, to satisfy. People always want something from you, and it seems like you can never do it right. On the rare occasion you can, it consumes you and the only thing you can do is focus on doing what they want. You don't matter anymore; you're a tool to them. You bend to their will and do what they want because disappointing them is unthinkable. It's never about you because it's always about them, and you know that's how it has to be, because you look up to them and they want it that way. So you fall to the wayside and remain there, dissolving away into nothingness until you're a shadow of what you could have been.
Only, no matter which one fits you, you tell no one. It's a personal secret, evidence of your weakness, your vulnerability, your humanity. And you feel you can't let it show. So you don't, and it becomes the burden you bear on your shoulder until one day you can finally get rid of it. To you, telling a person means giving them a chance to hurt you, and you're already broken enough, ground to dust. It eats away at you from the inside, but society classifies it as a want, maybe something you really want, but it's still a want. To them, you don't need it to survive.
To you it draws the line between life and death.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Illness and Aggravation
So yesterday the school sent me home for being sick.
Yay?
Kind of. See, it's nice because I get to sleep and all that, but I'm going to have to much to make up over the weekend and I should work on Christmas presents. On top of that, my short story is due tomorrow, and this won't get an extended deadline because the school doesn't run the contest. This is the only thing I must get done today.
Besides stupid Christmas presents.
Excuse me as I go vomit again. Literally. *stumbles off to the bathroom*
--Ave, diseased, tired, and sick of present making
Yay?
Kind of. See, it's nice because I get to sleep and all that, but I'm going to have to much to make up over the weekend and I should work on Christmas presents. On top of that, my short story is due tomorrow, and this won't get an extended deadline because the school doesn't run the contest. This is the only thing I must get done today.
Besides stupid Christmas presents.
Excuse me as I go vomit again. Literally. *stumbles off to the bathroom*
--Ave, diseased, tired, and sick of present making
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Truth
I do not know what to get anyone for Christmas and all my presents suck and lately they've all been irritating me anyways so why would I even bother to get them anything? Maybe they don't deserve it. Maybe often enough I find myself thinking they don't deserve it, that they don't get me, that we don't really care about each other.
But I said I would and if I don't they'll know something is wrong and then panic over my well-being and then the fake caring comes in. Everyone fake cares and doesn't even know they're doing it half the time. When you pretend to be concerned or worried over something you're not--we all do it. I do it. You've all done it; admit it.
There are two sides to every story.
People are never sincere unless they really care, and in truth, not everyone can really care.
You can only be close to so many people before being close to them doesn't mean as much anymore.
Doesn't mean anything anymore.
And maybe it doesn't even take that to make two people separate. It doesn't, actually. It takes an argument, a trivial argument over a stupid thing. And it can have loads of reason behind it or nothing at all, because maybe your relationship was built on the trivial, that which doesn't matter, and you've just gotten a reality check. So the relationship melts, in its fragile state, like sugar doused with water, because there's nothing to hold you together--you never had anything in the first place.
Just pointless conversations and in jokes no one else understands, jokes you would look at later and see the stupidity of. But you never realized that when you were still friends, it was all part of the happy illusion you were just so willing to believe, above all else. Even if it was too good to be true. Because you were airtight, you adored each other, and the day you stopped being friends was the day of Armageddon.
Until that day truly arrived and the rest of the world was in one piece, but you were a million shards. Scattered in the dust. Left by the wayside. They didn't need you anymore--you never needed each other. Maybe you needed them, but certainly not vice versa. And you cry over it, you cry because even if they can just forget about those pointless, golden moments, you can't. They're ingrained in your heart; they're a part of you. And they always will be; you're sure of it.
The separation is scary, and unusual, and a totally surreal experience, but you don't let anyone know how much it terrifies you. You act fine, and you do what you always do, but you change. It's slow and it's gradual and no one notices it because it's so gradual, but it's happening. It's happening, and no force on earth, come hell or high water, can change that. The change teaches you not to trust, not to entertain yourself with the trivial, to only care about what can be, not what you wish could be. All you care about is protecting yourself from that hurt again, so you build up a sort of wall between you and the rest of the world. You resent them for putting you through that, and you don't want to be around them. People mention them and on the inside, you shudder. You want to cry, to bury yourself in a corner and never have to leave. And sometimes, more often that anyone ever should, you want to die to escape that feeling, because nothing feels safe anymore, no part of you can be preserved from that earthshaking hurt.
And you're a new person then. You crawl out of that hole and you rebuild yourself as that new, stoic person, the person who doesn't care about fantasies and illusions. You're the person who just cares and cares and cares, about everything, but loves nothing. You don't love anything or anyone anymore, only that which you loved before you became this new person, and you only hold those things closer, willing yourself not to lose them too. Losing them too would only tear you apart inside so fully, so completely, that you couldn't live anymore, and that shows you how weak you truly are, despite your wall. So you resent the initial person even more, because they made you change and even though you became a different person, you're still not safe and that pain can hit you again.
You know that you need them more because you're the one who takes the first step, the one who tentatively taps them on the shoulder and asks--but to you, it's begging, pleading, wishing with everything you have--if maybe, just maybe, you could talk. Because underneath it all, you yearn to have the old days back, the perfect, childlike days that you ruined. Only, there's no way to get them back and they're gone forever, and you just have to deal with it.
That doesn't mean you don't try, because you do try, with everything you have, and at the end you hug it out, and everything is okay, and the two of you go back to normal. But try as you might, the old days are gone. So the two of you tiptoe around each other, and eventually you learn to do more than care. You learn to love the little things--the seven am winter sunrise, the look of a dog that is learning that not everyone wants to beat the living hell out of it, and it finally trusting you, the way how frost dots the grass on fall mornings, the feel of that blanket you spent months sewing and how nice it looks now that you've finally finished, the way that even your family can laugh around a bonfire and spend four hours playing Apples to Apples. And everything isn't so dim and gloomy.
You're happy. But you can't love people--they seem to be only irritating creatures, worrying about stupid things.
But the happiness fluxes with despair, confused despair that doesn't know what to do or what aggravates it. It just wants to be done with.
Only you don't want to pick that fight again.
Sometimes, though, you do get to pick up all the pieces, and they help you. You've known each other for nearly as long as you can remember, you know everything about each other. Even through it all, you loved each other like the sisters you never had, even if you have one. And you go back to doing all those things you would do in first grade, back to spending most of every single Friday at her house, back to doing your math homework on her back deck even when it's freezing outside. Because the two of you are true friends, for lack of a better word. And maybe you will fall apart in college, when she stays to go to college more locally and you're on the other end of the country because you're determined to get in to an amazing school.
Because the two of you can never fall entirely out of touch, even if you don't stay best friends--you've been together so long, you fought over something so trivial--you'll be okay.
But in the case of not wanting to pick that fight, you don't know what to do. You're in a rut, stuck, and as to which way is up, you have no idea. And the two of you in this situation fought for real reasons, and you never had the chance to be so close, even if they knew more about you. And even if they seem happy they're different too, and maybe you don't like this new them. Maybe this new version of them reminds you of the part of them you hated, magnified and blown up and you don't want to be near it. Your conversations now feel like they lack a spark, the slightest inkling of anyone caring what you say or how you feel or even bothering to remember what you were talking about.
So you go back to feeling neglected, and resign yourself to everything being like that.
But I said I would and if I don't they'll know something is wrong and then panic over my well-being and then the fake caring comes in. Everyone fake cares and doesn't even know they're doing it half the time. When you pretend to be concerned or worried over something you're not--we all do it. I do it. You've all done it; admit it.
There are two sides to every story.
People are never sincere unless they really care, and in truth, not everyone can really care.
You can only be close to so many people before being close to them doesn't mean as much anymore.
Doesn't mean anything anymore.
And maybe it doesn't even take that to make two people separate. It doesn't, actually. It takes an argument, a trivial argument over a stupid thing. And it can have loads of reason behind it or nothing at all, because maybe your relationship was built on the trivial, that which doesn't matter, and you've just gotten a reality check. So the relationship melts, in its fragile state, like sugar doused with water, because there's nothing to hold you together--you never had anything in the first place.
Just pointless conversations and in jokes no one else understands, jokes you would look at later and see the stupidity of. But you never realized that when you were still friends, it was all part of the happy illusion you were just so willing to believe, above all else. Even if it was too good to be true. Because you were airtight, you adored each other, and the day you stopped being friends was the day of Armageddon.
Until that day truly arrived and the rest of the world was in one piece, but you were a million shards. Scattered in the dust. Left by the wayside. They didn't need you anymore--you never needed each other. Maybe you needed them, but certainly not vice versa. And you cry over it, you cry because even if they can just forget about those pointless, golden moments, you can't. They're ingrained in your heart; they're a part of you. And they always will be; you're sure of it.
The separation is scary, and unusual, and a totally surreal experience, but you don't let anyone know how much it terrifies you. You act fine, and you do what you always do, but you change. It's slow and it's gradual and no one notices it because it's so gradual, but it's happening. It's happening, and no force on earth, come hell or high water, can change that. The change teaches you not to trust, not to entertain yourself with the trivial, to only care about what can be, not what you wish could be. All you care about is protecting yourself from that hurt again, so you build up a sort of wall between you and the rest of the world. You resent them for putting you through that, and you don't want to be around them. People mention them and on the inside, you shudder. You want to cry, to bury yourself in a corner and never have to leave. And sometimes, more often that anyone ever should, you want to die to escape that feeling, because nothing feels safe anymore, no part of you can be preserved from that earthshaking hurt.
And you're a new person then. You crawl out of that hole and you rebuild yourself as that new, stoic person, the person who doesn't care about fantasies and illusions. You're the person who just cares and cares and cares, about everything, but loves nothing. You don't love anything or anyone anymore, only that which you loved before you became this new person, and you only hold those things closer, willing yourself not to lose them too. Losing them too would only tear you apart inside so fully, so completely, that you couldn't live anymore, and that shows you how weak you truly are, despite your wall. So you resent the initial person even more, because they made you change and even though you became a different person, you're still not safe and that pain can hit you again.
You know that you need them more because you're the one who takes the first step, the one who tentatively taps them on the shoulder and asks--but to you, it's begging, pleading, wishing with everything you have--if maybe, just maybe, you could talk. Because underneath it all, you yearn to have the old days back, the perfect, childlike days that you ruined. Only, there's no way to get them back and they're gone forever, and you just have to deal with it.
That doesn't mean you don't try, because you do try, with everything you have, and at the end you hug it out, and everything is okay, and the two of you go back to normal. But try as you might, the old days are gone. So the two of you tiptoe around each other, and eventually you learn to do more than care. You learn to love the little things--the seven am winter sunrise, the look of a dog that is learning that not everyone wants to beat the living hell out of it, and it finally trusting you, the way how frost dots the grass on fall mornings, the feel of that blanket you spent months sewing and how nice it looks now that you've finally finished, the way that even your family can laugh around a bonfire and spend four hours playing Apples to Apples. And everything isn't so dim and gloomy.
You're happy. But you can't love people--they seem to be only irritating creatures, worrying about stupid things.
But the happiness fluxes with despair, confused despair that doesn't know what to do or what aggravates it. It just wants to be done with.
Only you don't want to pick that fight again.
Sometimes, though, you do get to pick up all the pieces, and they help you. You've known each other for nearly as long as you can remember, you know everything about each other. Even through it all, you loved each other like the sisters you never had, even if you have one. And you go back to doing all those things you would do in first grade, back to spending most of every single Friday at her house, back to doing your math homework on her back deck even when it's freezing outside. Because the two of you are true friends, for lack of a better word. And maybe you will fall apart in college, when she stays to go to college more locally and you're on the other end of the country because you're determined to get in to an amazing school.
Because the two of you can never fall entirely out of touch, even if you don't stay best friends--you've been together so long, you fought over something so trivial--you'll be okay.
But in the case of not wanting to pick that fight, you don't know what to do. You're in a rut, stuck, and as to which way is up, you have no idea. And the two of you in this situation fought for real reasons, and you never had the chance to be so close, even if they knew more about you. And even if they seem happy they're different too, and maybe you don't like this new them. Maybe this new version of them reminds you of the part of them you hated, magnified and blown up and you don't want to be near it. Your conversations now feel like they lack a spark, the slightest inkling of anyone caring what you say or how you feel or even bothering to remember what you were talking about.
So you go back to feeling neglected, and resign yourself to everything being like that.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
A Plan. (Actually, more of a list . .. )
I swear to God I am just bipolar.
I'm happy but sad and frustrated and confused yet content. All at once.
Today really sucked. Yesterday really sucked. And this week?
It really sucks.
I've only just realized how much I still have to do--and it's kind of eleven at night on a Wednesday, and I have to be up in roughly seven hours . . . And because I'm not going to bed now I'll have to wake up early to get things done.
Friday is when my math test is, when the school spelling bee (which I sort of have to win) is, when my history essay is due, when my interview thing is due, when . . . when everything is due. When everything must be done by. So I'm sort of kind of panicking. I've been busy and thus had no time to study for bio, which I should do since . . . well, since it's basically the most important class I take, and the hardest, but lately it's been the easiest. Today I came home with homework in every subject, which didn't exactly help. Tomorrow I still have to do:
--Regular daily math homework, which I would do in my free period but can't because I have to make up today's homework
--Cumulative math review
--Organize hellish math binder/homework
--Work on English biography project (I'm doing Hitler. It's actually fun. O_O)
--Finish Social Studies essay (I'm so behind on this it's not even funny. I have to finish writing my paragraphs, edit, then write a rough draft. *sigh* Hand-written, too. No typed stuff. And I type much faster than I write.)
--Interview my mother on how horrid peer pressure was in her day. And sit there as she points out to me how pointless this is--which, I agree, it is. But I still have to do it.
--Draw some things for art. Then draw extra credit to make up for the crappiness of the things I drew that I had to draw. But this is due Tuesday, so.
--I'll definitely have bio homework, and even if I don't we have a project due on Monday that we have to finish basically in class Friday.
--Study for bio, for like an hour.
--And whatever Spanish homework I get stuck with.
Then, I have to study for the stupid spelling bee. Because they know me, I swear: They have Borders gift cards. Which is like free books.
I like free things. Especially books.
There is, of course, a more pleasant task I must complete--besides Christmas presents (just a note on that: Bianca's fic, at least, shall be epic. Kal's shall be pretty good, and so shall Storm's and Theia's--the latter of which I must start . . . --and I have no idea for Desy. Crit is getting Halt/Will, of course, and Juliet . . . not sure what she's getting yet. We'll get there.
Anyways. There's this writing contest which I'm entering. And I have hopes, at least, because even though my Spartacus idea killed itself via historical fact (Why, oh why, Spartacus, were you not crucified on the Appian Way like the others? It would have made an epic short story!) So instead I'm using Joan of Arc, and her waiting out the final moments before she's burned alive.
. . . We'll see how badly this fails later. *waves away*
And that is the synopsis of this week, which sucks.
So much for me getting in the Christmas spirit or being happy--which also sucks, because I adore December and snow and the cold and everything. After Friday, I'll be happy. Well, except I'll have to spend all my time on that short story. But after the seventeenth, I'm in the clear.
. . . That isn't actually giving me much time. Crap.
This month goes by so fast. *wistful sigh*
Nearly eleven-thirty now. Must finish homework and manage to print Joan of Arc research without being discovered . . .
--Ave, ever the spy . . .
I'm happy but sad and frustrated and confused yet content. All at once.
Today really sucked. Yesterday really sucked. And this week?
It really sucks.
I've only just realized how much I still have to do--and it's kind of eleven at night on a Wednesday, and I have to be up in roughly seven hours . . . And because I'm not going to bed now I'll have to wake up early to get things done.
Friday is when my math test is, when the school spelling bee (which I sort of have to win) is, when my history essay is due, when my interview thing is due, when . . . when everything is due. When everything must be done by. So I'm sort of kind of panicking. I've been busy and thus had no time to study for bio, which I should do since . . . well, since it's basically the most important class I take, and the hardest, but lately it's been the easiest. Today I came home with homework in every subject, which didn't exactly help. Tomorrow I still have to do:
--Regular daily math homework, which I would do in my free period but can't because I have to make up today's homework
--Cumulative math review
--Organize hellish math binder/homework
--Work on English biography project (I'm doing Hitler. It's actually fun. O_O)
--Finish Social Studies essay (I'm so behind on this it's not even funny. I have to finish writing my paragraphs, edit, then write a rough draft. *sigh* Hand-written, too. No typed stuff. And I type much faster than I write.)
--Interview my mother on how horrid peer pressure was in her day. And sit there as she points out to me how pointless this is--which, I agree, it is. But I still have to do it.
--Draw some things for art. Then draw extra credit to make up for the crappiness of the things I drew that I had to draw. But this is due Tuesday, so.
--I'll definitely have bio homework, and even if I don't we have a project due on Monday that we have to finish basically in class Friday.
--Study for bio, for like an hour.
--And whatever Spanish homework I get stuck with.
Then, I have to study for the stupid spelling bee. Because they know me, I swear: They have Borders gift cards. Which is like free books.
I like free things. Especially books.
There is, of course, a more pleasant task I must complete--besides Christmas presents (just a note on that: Bianca's fic, at least, shall be epic. Kal's shall be pretty good, and so shall Storm's and Theia's--the latter of which I must start . . . --and I have no idea for Desy. Crit is getting Halt/Will, of course, and Juliet . . . not sure what she's getting yet. We'll get there.
Anyways. There's this writing contest which I'm entering. And I have hopes, at least, because even though my Spartacus idea killed itself via historical fact (Why, oh why, Spartacus, were you not crucified on the Appian Way like the others? It would have made an epic short story!) So instead I'm using Joan of Arc, and her waiting out the final moments before she's burned alive.
. . . We'll see how badly this fails later. *waves away*
And that is the synopsis of this week, which sucks.
So much for me getting in the Christmas spirit or being happy--which also sucks, because I adore December and snow and the cold and everything. After Friday, I'll be happy. Well, except I'll have to spend all my time on that short story. But after the seventeenth, I'm in the clear.
. . . That isn't actually giving me much time. Crap.
This month goes by so fast. *wistful sigh*
Nearly eleven-thirty now. Must finish homework and manage to print Joan of Arc research without being discovered . . .
--Ave, ever the spy . . .
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Thinking
My mother has always warned me that one day my inability to shut up when I should or not have the last word or not know when to keep my mouth shut will end up getting me killed. Or maybe she didn't say it in those words, exactly, but that's the gist of it: One day I will talk back to the wrong person and end up maimed and/or dead. She's probably right about this, yet I still maintain that problem with not being able to be quiet.
So sue me.
How this connects to my current situation, I don't really know. See, Thorn and I keep trying to talk through issues and a lot of them have been resolved, but the fact remains that there were a lot of problems in the first place. So I keep coming back to a point where I'm thinking, "Should I say this? What I think?" And the answer usually ends up being yes.
I've been watching a lot of "Scrubs" lately. Scrubs is, of course, an epic TV show about a bunch of doctors that follows them as they rise through the ranks at a hospital. It also teaches you important life lessons about, well , everything. I think, at least. It's addicting.
Bottom line: I need to learn to shut up, I should also probably go respond to a PM now, and Scrubs teaches you everything.
Now, I'm going to go watch Ocean's. The second one--Ocean's Twelve--and then maybe the third one.
--Ave, feeling . . . optimistic, for once. And maybe actually happy
So sue me.
How this connects to my current situation, I don't really know. See, Thorn and I keep trying to talk through issues and a lot of them have been resolved, but the fact remains that there were a lot of problems in the first place. So I keep coming back to a point where I'm thinking, "Should I say this? What I think?" And the answer usually ends up being yes.
I've been watching a lot of "Scrubs" lately. Scrubs is, of course, an epic TV show about a bunch of doctors that follows them as they rise through the ranks at a hospital. It also teaches you important life lessons about, well , everything. I think, at least. It's addicting.
Bottom line: I need to learn to shut up, I should also probably go respond to a PM now, and Scrubs teaches you everything.
Now, I'm going to go watch Ocean's. The second one--Ocean's Twelve--and then maybe the third one.
--Ave, feeling . . . optimistic, for once. And maybe actually happy
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Amazement
Today I discovered how to check my Blogger stats, and realized something that amazes me: I ACTUALLY HAVE PEOPLE WHO READ THIS THING.
I know, I was shocked too.
So I think I'm gonna cut back on the rants. Seeing as my dear .8 readers might actually not want to read about my woes, and the post below this one was . . . bad. *nods*
ANYWAYS.
I am eating Frosted Mini Wheats. *nods* And I got a new puppy today. He looks something like the picture to the left. Isn't he adoraaaaaaaaaaaaaable?
Only, his ears are different. *frowns* And he has a skin condition . . .
Now he's eating my backpack and it's still cute. Damn him and his cuteness.
Anyways. Lately I've been trying to work on people's Christmas presents a lot, but it's not going so well. Mostly because I keep procrastinating writing whatever I'm giving them. So far the list consists of:
Storm--No idea.
Theia--Writing her a story with Kal. I'm actually quite happy with this one.
Des/Mia--I have no clue. And I still didn't give her a birthday gift. *sulks*
Kal--She's getting a happy!Finnick fic. How I shall write this, I know not, but I'll do it.
Kayla--She'd probably want a slash story. Unfortunately, Slash + Ave = No.
Peter--He's getting a propaganda pamplet for his fake political party (abbreviated as PMS). It's actually fun. 8D
Cez--Uhm. Uhm. Uhm.
. . . No idea. *sulks*
Bianca--I actually know this one and have started it! Bianca's getting a sad cheesy romance fic. *smiles*
Juliet--I don't really have any ideas for her either.
Critic--She's getting a story involving Halt and Will from Ranger's Apprentice. Even though I said I can't write slash.
Jed--I should get her something, since I "adopted" her. But I'm lazy.
That's the list of everyone getting a present from me--and even then I might cut some people from it. Honestly, I'm writing them all stories. And some people I just don't talk to often enough for that. For those who do get a present, it's for putting up with my crap all year round. :D
I should go now. Must work on Bianca's present, and math homework awaits.
--Ave, quite cheerful
PS--Getting my own laptop for Christmas. 21 days to go . . .
Thursday, December 2, 2010
*headdesks and doesn't even bother to lift head again*
Here's a lesson to you, my dear .4 readers: If you plan on having a close friend whom you've never met and whom lives multiple states away and you both hang around in the same group of friends, do not estrange yourself from said best friend. Why?
Because said group of friends will never shut the fuck up about them.
Ever.
I'm staring at you, Kal, Theia, Juliet, even if I'm 99.99947% sure that none of you will never read this. But you know what? I don't give a damn if you'll never read this, because maybe someone else will and they'll pass the message along.
Honestly, I do not care if you want us to be friends again. I don't care if it's "hard for you to be friends with us both." I don't. If you have to choose between us because it's too damn hard, then choose, and I do not care if you pick her over me--you've essentially already done that with your seeming inability to shut up.
Those are the two things I've asked of you: Don't talk about her when I'm around, and don't try to make me be her friend anymore. But you couldn't even do that, because it was so damn hard for you to do. You failed miserably in both respects.
I'm sorry that it's "so hard" for you to have to deal with all this and you don't like us fighting--but think for one second, one goddamn second of how it is for me, not just for yourselves. I don't care how selfish it seems, I'm the one who lost a close friend, not you. And honestly, if all of you would just leave it alone I'd be fine, but you're not content that way. You're transfixed on us liking one another again and being friends again, when we can't be anyways.
I love you all like sisters--but you're not making it easy.
Because said group of friends will never shut the fuck up about them.
Ever.
I'm staring at you, Kal, Theia, Juliet, even if I'm 99.99947% sure that none of you will never read this. But you know what? I don't give a damn if you'll never read this, because maybe someone else will and they'll pass the message along.
Honestly, I do not care if you want us to be friends again. I don't care if it's "hard for you to be friends with us both." I don't. If you have to choose between us because it's too damn hard, then choose, and I do not care if you pick her over me--you've essentially already done that with your seeming inability to shut up.
Those are the two things I've asked of you: Don't talk about her when I'm around, and don't try to make me be her friend anymore. But you couldn't even do that, because it was so damn hard for you to do. You failed miserably in both respects.
I'm sorry that it's "so hard" for you to have to deal with all this and you don't like us fighting--but think for one second, one goddamn second of how it is for me, not just for yourselves. I don't care how selfish it seems, I'm the one who lost a close friend, not you. And honestly, if all of you would just leave it alone I'd be fine, but you're not content that way. You're transfixed on us liking one another again and being friends again, when we can't be anyways.
I love you all like sisters--but you're not making it easy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)