No. Hah. It's not 3 AM in the morning, yet.
My "friend" send me the link to his blog thing. I read it. I was mentioned in it. He called me his "friend". . . For some reason that made me sad. I'm just a "friend" to him.
Multiple times he rants on and on to some girl that he loves with all his fucked up heart. Multiple times he tells some girl he hates to go fuck off. Multiple times I wonder if any of those were directed at me. Probably the latter ones. But if I wanted to be like him, I could post shit.
Shit like this: I can't believe I wasted my time on a boy like you. An arrogant, beautiful, masterpiece of a boy. Why was I so absolutely attracted to you the moment you came into my life? No idea. Fate is just one fucked up son of a bitch who likes to play with me like I'm his favorite naked barbie doll. Fate threw me at you, a man who held his arms wide open to catch me, to cuddle me and warm me and let me cry in his shirt. A man who begged to be married with me, who planned his whole future with me before I could open my mouth. Who talked about our kids and our home and sex and how much he loved me. How he was /so/ fucking in love with me. And I'm such a weak..I let my eyes drop down in broken-heartedness just now. An I really that weak? Am I really that shallow? That pathetic? That needy? No. I don't believe I am. I'm just a girl who had been dreaming of love her whole life. I'm just a girl who saw a man that was perfect and dreamed of the impossible. I'm just the girl who's dream came true. Her dream was in sight and she fucking /ran/ at it. Yep. Me. The girl who had all she wanted for a few months..And when she needed him most..he wasn't there for her. He promised he would be, but he wasn't. When he came out of hiding he said "I died." Told her she was beautiful and gorgeous and mouth watering and stunning and kinky and hot and that he loved her. (True story) and as she gazed in wonder, he broke her out of her reverie with a smoldering slap in the face. It was too good to be true. He broke up with her. And two days later she celebrated one of the worst birthdays of her life. Then she cried her eyes out to a distant friend for a month or two. She mourned over her lost love. He didn't realize that she had been head over heels in love with him. That she gave her heart to him. She trusted him with it. Her scarred, scared, screaming heart..and he drank it dry, tossing the heath behind his shoulder as he moved on without her. In the end, it was apparent he never gave a shit about her. She'd always prized him as talented. Who knew he was such a great actor. And yet here I am, still thinking about him. I wish I would get over myself. I wish I would get over him. I'm over him. I'm over him. I'm over him. I'm over him. I'm over him. I'm over him. I'm dying. He doesn't know. I tried to tell him. He didn't care. I'm over him. I'm over him. I'm over him. There's a cure. To my sickness. I'm over him. But I want to die. I'm not over him. I want to die. I'm over him. I'm staring at the cure. I'm over him. And thinking about him. I'm not over him. I'm staring at the cure. I'm over him. And wondering if I could do it for him. I'm not over him. Why is that? I'm not over him. Why is there a part of me thinking about him instead of the reaper?
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