A Brief, Selfish Foray Into LiveJournalism

There comes a time when everything that was wrong seems insignificant, like boxy yellow taxies viewed from the summit of a skyscraper. Every little thing that went right, on the other hand, feels like the stuff that launches rockets into space and topples evil wizards from their thrones. Part of you knows you cannot impose anything on her and that there is nothing you have ever done or said that will change her mind.

Still, you wonder why she has to impose this on you. You feel numb, as if some imaginary boxer were slowly driving his fist into your sternum, one inch at a time. Sleep is the last thing on your mind. You are torn between seeking inadequate solace from others and wallowing in your own misery. All you can really do is write self-serving, charmless little paragraphs describing your feelings and then posting them on the Internet, baring your jumbled thoughts for all to see.

Miss you. Now we move on, I suppose. Hit the ground running, they say, or you might lose your teeth.

Listening to: Come On Home - Franz Ferdinand