Baby's putting me out - 04.03.03 - 11:15 pm
Look!

Last night, I forgot to officially welcome you, my poor readers, to The Three Most Fucked Up Days of the Year.

April 3rd, 4th and 5th.

I've already elaborated on the 5th, but what about those other two days? What makes them suck any more than the other many sucky days of the year?

Eighth grade. April 3rd. We had scored a quarter bag of some really good weed. "We" being Best Friend, Jen and myself. Best Friend offered her bedroom as a place to smoke and that night, we killed that fucking bag. It took until 6am and Lou Reed's Walk On the Wild Side on a loop, but, by god, we did it.

Sometime during the night, Jen and Best Friend got it in their fuzzy little heads that it would be a good idea for me to date a perpetually drunk boy named Dumbass. They began trying to convince me to like him. I said nononononono and drew on my legs with a red Sharpie. This did not faze them. On and on it went.

Finally, at around 6:30am on April 4th, I said OK. I'll do it. It was a very sudden change and I should write a pamphlet on why smoking pot is bad.

Anyway, for the following four years, I would look at those days on the calendar and think, "What the fuck? Why am I still wasting energy over him? Die, die, die." And, as if the cosmos have decided to never, ever let me forget how stupid I was, those days still suck even though the thought of just kissing Dumbass makes me crave antibiotics.

Oh, snap.

So yeah. It's no longer about him or boys in general. I just kinda sorta feel bad.

So yay! Welcome!

Anyway, I'm not really feeling that much better but I'm going to lie and say everything is A-fucking-OK. Because who wants to hear me complain? Nobody, that's who.

If there's some masochistic soul out there who is protesting right now, fear not. You know lack of other peoples interest isn't going to stop me.

Last night, as I was sitting in front of this stupid computer and feeling sorry for my stupid self, Jen was alone in a motel room, crying and smoking and trying to reach me on my cell phone. Which was in my bedroom.

She got dumped.

So early this afternoon, the two of us dragged our sleep-deprived asses to the diner and just talked. A lot. Then I realized that the artificial lighting was really bugging me and hey! Let's go to the fucking beach!

And to the fucking beach we went.

It was good. Really, really good. We sat on the towel and made things out of sand, which we promptly smashed. We tried to skip rocks across the water and my skin is still warm from the sun.

Yeah...the beach is good for the soul, man.

Which reminds me, one week from tomorrow, I will be in Cocoa fucking Beach. And drunk. Very, very drunk.

OK, here is where those of you who do not wish to read about boys and the effect that boys have on me can click on the X.

Click.

I was reading through my old entries and found out that I kept getting the years wrong. I went from four years to two years and up to five years. So just how old is this crush? Five fucking years in June. I did the math. I do not know why I did the math or why it even matters enough to warrant the fingers punching out the letters, but oh well.

I wish he could just spend one day feeling like I'm feeling right now. Then maybe he'd know.

It kills me to say this, but I can't stop thinking about him and having dreams about him and it's no wonder why I can't sleep anymore. This shit is stuck in my head and I can't fucking stop.

This isn't fair. But then life isn't fair so la dee da, Molly. Quit it.

I don't feel very good right now, so I'm going to take a hot bath and go to bed. There are about four sleeping pills blurring my vision and maybe I'll have nightmares instead. Ha ha. I'm so goth.

Fuck it all. I don't care.

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