July 30, 2001
Psychotic Bitch Mode
Do you ever just feel like everything in your life is total shit? Do you ever just want someone to scream at? Do you ever attack the person you most love for something they probably have no control over? Are you ever just a raging, psycho bitch whose only outlet is to yell at herself?
I am a psycho.
I haven't fucking talked to Ryan today. He didn't call me until, like, two o'clock and then five minutes after that he said he should probably call Lindle before he forgets and only stayed on the phone with me because I said I wanted to talk to him. He made an exit some fifteen minutes after that, however, with some lame excuse. He said he'd probably call me when he got out of soccer practice at nine. At nine thirty-nine I decided to call him. And he acted suprised. I kept up a half-hearted conversation of which his main responses were "yeah, you know" and "right."
Don't strain yourself to actually fucking listen to me, Ryan. I wouldn't want you to go out of your way for me or anything.
Does he ever go out of his way for me? Or is it always me going out of my way for him? Me getting bitched and screamed at everytime we go out? Him not bothering to notice the pain in my voice or ignoring it because it's easier?
And I'm probably just creating this out of my usual hormonal angst. But I don't care. I wanted to talk to him tonight, I wanted him to say something sweet, hell, something constructive, but he couldn't even strain himself to say more than three words. He was busy. Entertaining his busy lifestyle of playing computer games or watching television.
It doesn't matter how much he tells me I mean to him if he doesn't show me. Last wednesday is miles away now. It was, as if, after that he somehow felt that he had exhausted his emotional reserves and it was allright to be coarse and brief with me. Fuck that. I give my soul to him and he courts the idea of giving me his with his short, flowery speeches, but he never quite does it. He keeps himself to himself. He calls me when he wants to talk to me; I should know by now that if he doesn't call he doesn't want to talk. Fuck that, too. Fuck calling him. Sure, he'll call me tomorrow. Five minutes or so before I have to leave for work, I'll wager. How convenient for him.
I wish I didn't feel this way. I wish he had done something to make me feel better. But the worst part is is that he doesn't even know I'm upset. He can't even fucking tell.
astera at later