On the off chance.
Enough. Enough, enough, enough.
This is enough. This is shit. This is fucked.
It's fucked to be sitting here, drawing conclusions based on one fucking goddamn entry, and to tell you the truth, I'm fucking sick of doing all the thinking.
You know what this is? This is every fucking relationship I've ever been in on repeat. This is, "Here you go, Carie. Been fun. Try to figure shit out, and give me a call when you've got it done."
This is me being left because of timing. This is another trick of the universe, showing me its secrets and taking them back. This is my moment of clarity lost to noise. This is my peace disrupted by a laugh track. This is you smashing the small house I've built out of wooden blocks, telling me you'll help rebuild it, but then going to play with someone else.
And you know, fuck you. Fuck you for saying I can't feel this. Fuck you, for yet AGAIN taking responsibility for my emotions. These things that drive me to everything, they're mine, asshole. Mine. And fuck you for being what ever you are that you can't accept your own feelings. And fuck you for really being like everyone else. Fuck you for finding me, fuck you for being so fucking wonderful, fuck you for living so far away.
And fuck you for leaving me here with only what you would give anyone with an internet connection.
So now, you'll read this, and you'll delete my name, because you'll think I don't want to talk to you... when nothing could be further from the truth.
Get your taste out of my mouth.
. . .
Good Night. If you could call it that.