Every single muscle in my back fucking hurts and I just took my last painkiller which probably wasn't a very good idea since breakfast was several cigarettes and lunch was booze and yes, I was slightly drunk when I went into work, which is a new low for me, actually. This is my last painkiller and this shit hurts and what the fuck am I going to do now? Drink? Yeah, baby. Drink till the pain's done gone away. Good fucking idea.

OK, I'm just going to apologize right...NOW for the suckiness contained in this box tonight. The only clear thought I have right now is LEAVE. Just jump on a fucking bus and ride it until it's still yesterday.

But just because that is the only clear thought right now does not mean that I will ignore the other, murkier, thoughts flopping around in my head like dying fish.

First, a word from my sponsor, my duck.

Howie says, "Hey, Molly. You are a duck's favorite person in the whole wide world. Seriously, now. That's got to count for something, right? Notice how happy I get when I see you and how I'm probably the only duck in the world who actually hugs back. So why the fuck are you sad, jerk? YOU HAVE A FUCKING PET DUCK. And, um, quack."

I don't even think I can write about this and make sense. Oh, wait. I'll just pretend it's not me and write in the third person. Cuz that's totally not lame or confusing or anything like that. Yeah.

"There was this girl who liked a boy. Like, a lot. And for a very long time. She had tried to get over him before, but nothing worked. Well, nothing is a lie because she never actually tried trepanning, which she had heard wonderful things about. Anyway, a few years went by and, finally, he started to leave her mind.

When he made plans to come over, she was not at fazed. 'OK,' she said to her pet...turkey. 'It'll be a little weird because this will be the first time I see him and not wish he were making out with me, but that's OK. It will be a liberating weird.'

Then he showed up at her house and she thought, 'Holy shit. He's acting like he...likes me. What the fuck?'

Blah blah blah.

Yes, she was right. He did like her. She fell all over again, times ten.

Blah blah blah."

Oh, fuck this. Fuck this a lot. I can't even figure out to explain anything that's happened in the last 48 hours. I don't know. Anything. I don't know what I want or what I should do (SHOULD do as in, what's the best for me and then him) or even how I'm supposed to ask him WHY without making it sound like an accusation.

I drank my stupid cheap wine and listened to that stupid Ani DiFranco song and felt really fucking stupid because I couldn't keep myself from crying.

And then I listened to Rollins Band "Love Song" and felt cool again, but that may have just been the alcohol kicking in.

You know what I want? I want to be that really fucking amazing girl that he can't get out of his head. I want to write stories that stay with him and I want to move in a way that mimics electricity. I want to be a Fermina Daza instead of a Duckie. I can't stop thinking that if only my metaphors were sharper, my hair longer/shorter, my brain more full, my name more well-known, my fucking confidence higher and my drive to succeed stronger then maybe he would...Christ, I don't even know what he would do.

And you know what else I want?

To just fucking stop.

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