Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Misplaced

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing, honestly. I trully am fine."

"I know you, something's not right. What's wrong? Tell me.

"I already said nothing's wrong so stop asking me."

silence

"Okay, fine. How was your day?"


FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. That's what's wrong. Understand? You piss me off. You just do. You don't have to try. I don't know why. Just the thought of talking to you gets me all worked up, although I know I want to. But when I do come around to hearing you, I just fucking feel like putting the phone down. Misplaced anger. I don't know. I fucking hate you.

I need to understand where all this is coming from. Why am I so repulsed? So fucking sickened? So damn angry? I was wrong wasn't I? But all I want to do is fucking hit you.

"So how was the shisha?"

"It was nothing special. I didn't have the company I wanted."

"What company did you want then?"

"All I had was Eric next to me, not a girl."

FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. I thought I couldn't be your fucking friend? It fucking hurts right? So fucking stop saying shit like that when it's stupid. It just is fucking stupid. Sometimes, it's better not to be so damn honest on how you feel. Take me for an example. If I told you every-fucking-little-thing, you'd hate me as much as I'm hating you right now. What's wrong? - You. Your stupid e-mail. Your poor defence. Your convenient little plan. You're too fucking good for me. You whine. You bitch. You don't fucking suck it up. Your need to see me. Your skill at getting me to be fucking vunerable. But no. I'll keep quiet, and suffer in silence because I don't need anymore fights with you, or drama, or you crying on the phone.

I still don't fucking know why I'm as angry as I am. Misplaced fucking anger.

::me:: at 06:41