It's not so much the way you hurt me, it's more like the way you make me want to hurt myself

Whatever J and I had is over.

He talks about wanting to be friends. I don't really care. And I told him I wouldn't make plans with him more than an hour in advance of anything.

I feel sick. I want to claw my own eyes out.

And most of all, I hate myself, I hate my own reactions to this, I hate the crazy, and I hate the fact that no matter how low I think my expectations are, I still manage to get so cripplingly disappointed.

I hope someone responds to my Facebook message.

I guess I can give my dad the CDs I burned of the new Dylan album.

At least The Poet still loves me. And that's not entirely horrible.

I hate this so much. I need to get out of the house, but I don't know where to go. I was hoping that if I called J before zazen it would be better, but now I don't know how I'm going to get on that cushion or what will happen when I get up.

And I think what makes me angriest of all is the fact that the week I met J was really a turning point of my being in the world, that it was the week I felt that things were changing for me, that I'd made some progress, that I could finally stop getting so hung up on specific people and really be grounded enough to face the world.

What a fucking joke that was.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. How am I supposed to work today? What am I supposed to do? How am I going to get through this wedding?

I kind of want to throw up. Or...I don't know. Buy cigarettes. Something. Erase everything good I've said about him during the past few months so my friends don't think I'm a complete fucking idiot.

Oh, and it's not just that this weekend was the weekend before the wedding. Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of my abortion. It's not that big of a deal in itself, but it did cause me to mourn what I could have had with E, if we'd managed to stay together longer. So the double abandonment. Yeah, not a whole lot of fucking fun.

I wonder if I should go back on Nerve when I get back from the wedding. That'll at least make for fun fucked up stories to shock people at my h.s. reunion.

I kind of wish I were on the market this year so I'd have something else to care about other than the stupid, quixotic, should-know-better-by-now attempt to try to make a decent life for myself here. After 10 years I should probably get the fucking hint.

Fuck. Just fuck. I wish I had a place I could scream.

Oh, and he was totally making it about the sex. Douchebag. Fucking douchebag.

And I think now I just let The Poet love me.