Tuesday, February 17, 2009

I am nothing without the spring memory of you.

I don't really remember what I was even looking for in the first place.

I crazy crazy miss the memories of us. It was simple. Underrated. Almost tangible. I could touch, smell, eat it - a ghost of an emotion that I've lost over countless confused hours where I tried replacing you with fruitless things like smoking and drinking. I never thought I would miss you. Never thought that at 4 a.m. after such a constant rush of moving and shaking - that when I am alone, stationary under the covers, deep in my thoughts, crying over spilled milk - that the only thought I have running through my feeble body is that I honest to god just fucking miss you.

There is no point in getting in contact with you again. You've moved on. I've moved on. You're happy. I'm not. Opposite ends of the spectrum; you and I. It was fun making you apart of my history though - through all the bullshit, and all your assholery, at least I was a respected woman in your eyes at the ripe ol' age of 13. An ugly duck in front of my own mirror, but for god knows why, a striking and vivacious girl in yours. Now you're just an anecdote I tell girlfriends when we're recounting past encounters, past loves, past flings, past "oh-my-god what was I thinking?", past relationships... over cocktails and with 'When Harry met Sally' in the background. It gives me comfort to know that even though Harry was a dick to Sally, in the end, Sally forgave him.

I wish you the best. Don't forget that we still have that pact when we both turn 35. Look me up in fifteen years. It'll be interesting to see how you turned out. Wonder if you'll still be a prick.

"Your girl is lovely, Hubbell."

I don't know where all this is coming from. I am entirely focused on this one thing, this one emotional crisis (definitely not a breakdown) that is bugging me and I am completely ignoring my studies. The adderall is working... except ON THE WRONG thing to focus on. Instead, I am worse off than ever before. I have nothing but hatred; digging up past memories for references, a timeline to meet, and pictures of you. Too bad I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. There is nothing left for me to hold onto. I just hate you. I say this with confidence because forced contemplation for over 10 hours gives me a lot of time to think. Repressed memories become nothing but residue. I accept what has happened. It's all just simply mounting into this pile of complete horseshit. I am a stupid girl. I hate that you think I'm naive at relationships and love. I hate it. You know nothing about my life or my past. I dare you to fucking call me naive again.

1 comment:

TomatoOnWheat said...

it's always easier to turn them into an anecdote. but they make such damn good ones