(deleted entry) i love you and i hate you. more likely than not i hate you.
written: 2:43 p.m. on Saturday, Sept. 10, 2005

As a final testament to how whacked I've become:

I cried myself to sleep early this morning. 3 a.m. and I was wiping tears from my face. 3 a.m. and my pillow was tear-stained and desperately comfortable. 3 a.m. and I thought, Help me if I don't fucking get through this night.

It was fun while it lasted. Now that it's over all I'm wishing for is that none of it ever happened.

I can't even talk to you about any of it because it hurts just to think about you.

I think I've finally had enough.

**

I really want to marry Julian Barnes because I am in love with his words, with his acerbic wit, with his cerebral cleverness, with the simple clarity of his prose, with the understated poetic beauty of his language, and with his amazing sensitivity that is absent in 99% of the male population.

And he is so devoted to his wife that it makes me slightly cheered, that maybe there's hope for male-kind yet. He dedicates his novels to her and adopted her last name as his detective fiction pseudonym, Dan Kavanagh.

I read "Appetite", a short story from the brilliant "The Lemon Table", early this morning. The poignancy of the story blew me away, a woman caring for her demented husband, putting up with his obscene verbal abuses, and finding transient happiness in little gasps of moments in which he is his old self again, or at least somewhere close. I am amazed. Mr. Barnes has this uncanny ability to portray the female mind in a profound, understanding way, it's almost as if he is a woman himself. Martha Cochrane in "England, England", and you can't get more apt than that.

I find such beautiful solace in his writings. And I need it especially now, when things are spiralling so out of control, and it's difficult to deal because they are all happening below the surface, in such cruel vagueness, emotionally-draining abstraction.

You wonder, why do I even give a fuck?

But you wonder, more pointedly, why don't you remotely give a fuck, and yet pretend that you do?

And it's all pretense because your actions contradict whatever the hell it is you'd have me believe. You don't get it, you never did, just tell me what the fuck it is you want, I'm sick of waiting for you to come around because it's clear by now that you never will, the more numbers we add to the spaces between us the further apart we'd drift, does it even matter to you in the most remote sense, why does it hurt so much more to let go?, I wish I'd never met you.

The icing on the cake: My parents were right from the very beginning. Fuck my stupidity for refusing to listen to them. Tell me again why we didn't just walk away that night, the beginning of the end, why you don't think I deserve more than what you're willing to give, why I subject myself to such disgusting sentimentality, futile and obdurate clinging-on to something that never truly existed as anything more than the imagined manifestation of a thin thread of silk. Nobody has ever made me feel this way before; so yes, I suppose, be proud of yourself for being the first.

Am I more concerned with what is right or what is fair? Where do you unearth the demarcation that supposedly exists between the two? Am I gloating because I'm right, or am I full of self-importance because I tried to be fair? Or maybe I'm wrong, and I'm not being fair, and I'm just an unimportant selfish bitch who desperately wants to believe that she means something/would mean something/meant something to someone/the world/the people whom she loves, and I'm dysfunctional and the only way in which I know how to deal, or attempt to deal, is by writing it all out, however misguided the intent, because writing doesn't expose me to the detriments of rebuttals, the potential of an argument, because ultimately the only voice that matters is my own, I'm self-centered and I can't stand how I'm no longer the centre of my own world, let alone yours, how badly it's killing me, how much I want it to stop.

"What brought her here? She knew the negative answers: disappointment, age, a discontent with the thinness of life, or at least life as she had known it, or chosen it." - "England, England", Julian Barnes.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010