Earlier today something snapped. That something, combined with yesterday's somethings, made me realise.. this had to end. Now.

So I ended it.

But never once would I have guessed you'd react the way you did. If it's any consolation, I'm starting to feel things for you that I can't explain? Everytime we make love, I fall for you...

Never mind the making love, every moment I spend with you, I fall for you more and more...

And then you call me.



I don't know what to do. Not now, not ever. In some weird twist of fate, I finally got what I'd set out to do - except that, if I'm completely honest, a part of me never expected to get here. So I never really thought about what I'd do when I finally did. And now, we're here. And I have absolutely no idea.

..and that's why we make such a perfect couple.

*sighs*

I'd ask why, but I already know what your reply's going to be. I can play the whole conversation we'd have in my head, knowing each and every response you'd give me, and what I'd say in return.

Somewhere along the way, our arrangement started.. deviating. A dealbreaker of sorts slipped through the cracks of a very flawed agreement, without either of us noticing, with both of us gladly embracing it and allowing it to.. happen.

So, it's happening.

Or maybe it isn't. And I'm just getting a little depressed because I always get depressed around this time of year. Valentine's Day notwithstanding. That piece of over-commercialised, over-advertised, over-priced, overly crap Hallmark picture perfect depiction of what Romance, and Love, apparently should be. Or so the single and lonely and unfulfilled tell themselves. Year after year. When we all know, and refuse to admit, that if we were "happy" and "content" and "whole", we'd eagerly anticipate the cheesiness of big pink hearts and even bigger pink cards with empty words barely filling an empty white page. Desperately hoping that Mr Whoever-Happens-To-Be-Right-For-Then will satisfy all girly childhood fantasies of white knights on white horses climbing up long never-ending braids of apparently super-strength hair capable of bearing the weight of a full grown man. In armour no less.

Bah, humbug.


You're amazing.

..I love you too.


The sad thing is, I'm starting to think you just might.

I'm being extremely naughty. *giggles*

I can't help comparing. It's bad of me, and I know I shouldn't be doing this, but I can't help myself. It's too much fun.

But it's bad....


I don't know if it's because I'm not used to you, or your scent yet, but I couldn't stop myself from missing Mister J's. From preferring the way he always curls his fingers through mine, bringing my hand to his lips and slowly kissing each tip before enveloping my palm with comfort and warmth. The melting chocolatey depths of his eyes telling me what I know he can not, and will not, say. Or the way his arm creeps in under my flannel pajama top, so old and worn-in to the perfect level of softness, to cup my left breast that fits like the last missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle in the depths of his palm. The very same way my body slots into his, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic thumping of his heart..

..I could never fall asleep in his arms before. I can now. Very easily too.

But maybe I'm feeling all this because absolutely nothing happened last night. You were the perfect gentleman, I am highly impressed, and if I am to be completely honest, somewhat surprised. I didn't think they made those any more. But evidently, they do.

Thank you for the perfect first date. Thank you for being so completely different from Mister J that I am still somewhat wary, understandably of course. So, thank you. Thank you for the wonderful conversation that whiled our night away, even though you had to get up for work in 4 hours, and I had class all morning. Thank you for making it clear it was my company you wanted, my conversation, my wit, my laughter and humour.. thank you for doing absolutely nothing at all, thank you for making me think you might actually want something more than just sex. Thank you for maybe restoring my faith in the male species, even if it is just by a tiny percentage increase. Thank you for making me smile right now as I'm writing this..

...most of all thank you, for the smile.

Ho ho ho and all that yummy gravy coated slices of turkey with servings of pork onion and sage stuffing topped with sugary cranberry sauce and party hats and family disagreements and exchanging commercialism amongst loved ones and tummy aches and far far too much alcohol being consumed type-a jazz.

God bless us, everyone!

Lonely. Love. Life. Live. Lie.


I just summed up my existence over the last few weeks in 5 words. I'm not quite sure if that's an applaudable achievement, or something quite quite sad.

Some things uplift me. Almost makes me feel that warm fuzzy wrapped in the softest cashmere rollneck jumper self-huggable feeling again. Almost, but not quite.

And then some things just completely make my blood boil and rile me up to the point where... I. Am. Speechless. I find that happening a lot recently. Not quite sure I like it.

Sometimes, when I'm out, talking and meeting new people, I can't help myself and find my control slipping, the facade fading, the mask melting, and the cynicism crawling out. Inevitably, my new acquaintances pick up on my misanthropy, and the very brave ones will very rarely gather up the courage and nerve to ask Why?

Because there are only so many chances one person can grant another, and if they persist in lying and breaking one's trust over and over again, one can only assume that one's friendship wasn't to be valued in the first place, and that the other is a complete. muthafucking. cowardly. asshole. Because one persists in living in a cosmopolitan metropole, to be surrounded by faceless phantoms tap dancing their own separate single individual lonely ways to beats they can only hear in the empty echoing cranium that is their head. Because trust and assholes don't mix, but assholes and eternal (but fading) optimism aren't exactly a recipe for warm buttery appley bread oozing with fresh clotted cream either. Because optimistic idealism and strangers lend trust to each other, but said trust ends up very often misplaced due to said overrated optimism.

And because every so often, a hint of blue sky cracking through dark grey clouds with the promise of brisk crisp clear winter biting the apples of one's cheeks and nose will make the heart beat just that little bit faster.. or the glimpse of pure unparalleled joy as mirrored on the face of a newborn, innocent at present and therefore all the more envied.. because of all that, the optimism hasn't quite disappeared just yet. Fading, a little too rapidly for my liking perhaps, but *checks*.. yup. Still there.

You make me spin round and round and round so fast until the lead in my heart drops down to my tippy toes to slow me down.

Make it stop. Someone. Anyone. Please.

Men's cologne make me weak in the knees. Yours in particular.

..and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies.

What if the cocoons shrivel up and the pupae all die? Or worse.. they emerge broken and disfigured because it's a harsh harsh world we live in.. one minute it's hot as all hell.. in November mind!.. and the next it's so bloody freezing I swear my nose would fall off if it wasn't attached firmly to my fat chubby face. Sometimes I'm not even sure it's attached all that well anyway.

I'm losing hope. I'm turning cynical and bitter and spiteful. And it's getting harder and harder every day, trying to remain rose-tintedly blissful and ignorant and naive and idealistic and romantic. Romance with a Capital R doesn't exist.. neither does little r. Or chivalry, or good-hearted, honest or kind.

It hurts. It really fucking hurts. It hurts even more how I can't hate you. It hurts so much that a part of me's still fucking hoping. A part of me still wants to fuck you. It hurts that you don't hurt. It hurts that I fell in love, but you didn't. It hurts that you treated me less than human, less than I deserve. It hurts that I still fucking love you, and it scares me that I'm even considering potentially getting back with you if you came back and begged. Wishful thinking.

You bastard. Leave me alone. Let me get on with my life. Please.

We make love like we're in love.

It's just sex. Minus the pretty words and great chemistry, we can boil it down to its fundamental animalistic foundation.. bodies slicked in sweat sliding against each other the rhythmic bump and grind tongues tangling hands clasped tight lips pursed in a perfect Ooohhh..

When I'm lying here holding you in my arms kissing you.. I feel content.

It's just sex. And words. Just lines. All lies. No actions to back it up with. Just honey dripped molasses coating a sugar bitter sweet pill.

And yet again, hindsight is 20/20.

Getting a little tired of that though. I'm considering going for laser eye surgery, so no more looking back.

*sighs*

emotionless. unfeeling. numb. in shock.

I'll get over this.

anger. hurt. revenge. pain.

How could you do this? To me? To her? Her son?

The truth always cracks through the silver lining in stormy rainclouds.

Goodbye.

I keep thinking I'm ok. And you know, most of the time I am. When I'm not sitting here listening to sad love songs reminding me yet again how lonely I feel.

There's a distinct division between Alone and Lonely. I'm never Alone. But I'm almost always Lonely. Only when I try really really really hard not to think about it, I pretend I'm not. It's harder to pretend when you're not always in a huge sea of anonymous blurred faces to make you feel less Alone. But not Lonely.

So maybe that explains my diminishing bank account, and the constant nights out drinking and dancing my leaden feet to match my heavy heart off. Because the later I stay out, the sooner my head collapses onto my soft soft pillow at the end of the night. Immediately. With no quiet alone time to think far too much about what could have been, and what is no longer.

The hardest part is accepting the fact that being Alone does not equate to being Lonely. It's difficult to disassociate the two when I always feel Lonely. So the vicious cycle continues. And my liver continues to dissipate. As does the slowly disappearing cash flow.

Lots of Ds. And abstract thoughts that seem incapable of flowing into beautiful heartbreaking sentences. Broken fragments to match the broken heart. The broken spirit. The broken hope.

The Doctor (yet another D) said he doesn't think I suffer from Depression (and another). I think he just caught me on a good day. Or maybe he's right, and I just think too much. Or something.

I think I'll go for a second opinion.

Am I thinking too much again?

Probably.

God that belongs in there.

So why did it leave in the first place?

Is that all you love?

No.

Make love to me. Please.

I always do baby. Can't you feel it right now?

Come kiss me.

You're one of three people I've told this to.



I love the way you cup my face in your hands and push my hair off my face and stare into my eyes when we make love. I love the way you make love to me. I love the way our fingers thread between the other and our hands fit comfortably perfectly together in the privacy of us and the way you pull me into your arms and I sink into the curve of your shoulder slotting in like the last missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle that has been missing for months and tantalising you with its unfinished beauty. I love it how you always put my pleasure first no baby I don't wanna cum yet I love making you cum except that one time and we're still laughing over that but you came back the next night and wiped the memory of the 2 minutes away and made it all right again.



Do me a favour next time and watch those nails of yours.

Heh. My bad.

You wanna know how I know everytime I've made you cum? When I go into the shower and the water hits the skin you've broken with your nails.

I'll try to watch myself the next time.



I miss you. And right now, I'm this close to calling you and asking you to get back together. But I still don't know if that's the right thing to do. I just know I miss you so much all the way down to the end of my spine feeling its way to my toes and right back up to the very ends of my hair.

Sunday was beautiful. Thank you sweetheart. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it, and it's Tuesday evening now.

I don't know what to do. I think I love you but I'm not sure. So maybe that's a no, or maybe that's a yes, or maybe that's a maybe I really have no idea.

I don't know what to do.