My hand is in my pants - 08.04.03 - 3:41 am
Look!

Maybe it's the drugs talking, but...OK, the drugs aren't talking at all and I've been staring at this screen for the past twenty minutes with my hand down my pants. I think my hip itched and after the itch was destroyed, I failed to remove my hand. Or I'm just dirty.

I am not going to focus on bad things. Fuck money. Fuck teeth. Fuck Tom Cruise. Everything will be OK and we will all join together in overalls and silly hats and dance around in circles while singing uplifting songs. Hooray! Stuff!

My mom asked me to find her a book today and all she could tell me about it was "It's about a woman who time travels. From the Bahamas. And she's captured by a pirate, they fall in love and she brings him back with her. I think." My mom worked in a library for ten years. She should know better.

I still tried to find it, though. I kinda got off on typing "pirate romance" into the card catalog.

This is not funny. I am sorry.

And this won't be funny, either.

I am almost positive now that I am over Jerkface. The reasons previously stated have gained even more strength and once I get over this whole wanting-to-do-bad-but-fun-things-to-him deal, it'll be official.

Hormones aside, I really do find it hard to believe that he cares. If I bring this up, he will say I'm assuming or whatever. But why am I even assuming in the first place? Yeah.

I think I really started to see this on the day of my play. Like I said before, I wasn't expecting him to be there and totally understood when he couldn't make it. What I don't understand is why he didn't call when he knew I was having a minor freak-out and when I actually asked him to call so I could talk to someone about stupid, happy bullshit to keep my mind off shit. He wrote me a couple emails and that was that.

And then there was Friday. Friday was a bad day. I called him and sort of explained everything, but he was at a bar and it hurt for me to talk over the background noise. And, um, that's pretty shitty of me to interrupt his night out with my ramblings. So I said, OK, I'm gonna go. Call me later, OK? I feel like shit and want to talk to someone.

No call.

Should I take this to mean that he really does not care or can't be bothered? I mean, it's not like I'm constantly calling him, in tears or anything. Or does this make me needy and clingy?

What also sucks is I'm starting to second-guess my response to the recent string of shitty luck like, "Should I really be upset by this? Maybe I'm overreacting." And then I feel dumb for feeling like shit. Oh, and let's not forget the guilt for even calling people in regards to the shitty luck and asking them to help take my mind off things.

I don't know. This whole thing makes me feel really, really stupid and annoying. I don't like it.

Thank Jesus for Vicodin.

After I sleep a bit, I will write a better entry about sex or monkeys or something. This one is pretty fucking square, especially since my head is full of opiates and it's 4am.

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