Status: =]
Sincerely, Me.
hello
I hate you.
Well okay maybe not exactly, but still. I am as far away from liking you as ice water is from the middle of the Sahara dessert. Good enough comparison, no? Whatever the description, the point is that I don't want to see or talk or even look at you again. I don't think I have it in me to smile sweetly at you when all I really want to do is grab a jar and smash it over your head. Repeatedly. With increasing force.
I hate that you did that to me, you know. The thing you did, back in high school. I mean really, what happened? Did the world decide to take your balls away from you the minute she asked you out? And honestly, why did you have to pick her, of all people? Why couldn't it have been Monica, or Randy or god-forbid, Lana? Why'd it have to be her?
I hate that I was stupid enough to still be nice to you afterwards. God, I'm such an idiot sometimes. I should've taken that phone and shoved it up your nose when you came knocking again. That and a nice handwritten fuck you note. But I didn't and to be fair, that was kind of my fault. Thank you though, for letting me know how absolutely stupid of an idea it was not two weeks later.
I hate that I spent so much time pining over you. Still do, actually. I hate that I let the experience of you define me enough to close myself from everyone else. From all those other absolutely decent guys out there (okay, overkill with the decent description but shut up, I'm still talking). I hate that I let you grow under my skin so much, I actually started to like having you there.
I hate that I still think of how soft your lips are, or your hands, or your body or anything concerning you. It's been three years. I should've gotten the hell over you by now. Not that you even mattered that much Oh, who am I kidding?
I hate that this feels (yes that is a word, get over it) are strong enough for me to find it necessary to write a story about but you know what, fuck you. I am going to heal, and I am going to write and I am going to oscillate between hating and loving you until this story ends. Hopefully, but the time it does, I'd have figured out what the hell to do with myself too.
Well okay maybe not exactly, but still. I am as far away from liking you as ice water is from the middle of the Sahara dessert. Good enough comparison, no? Whatever the description, the point is that I don't want to see or talk or even look at you again. I don't think I have it in me to smile sweetly at you when all I really want to do is grab a jar and smash it over your head. Repeatedly. With increasing force.
I hate that you did that to me, you know. The thing you did, back in high school. I mean really, what happened? Did the world decide to take your balls away from you the minute she asked you out? And honestly, why did you have to pick her, of all people? Why couldn't it have been Monica, or Randy or god-forbid, Lana? Why'd it have to be her?
I hate that I was stupid enough to still be nice to you afterwards. God, I'm such an idiot sometimes. I should've taken that phone and shoved it up your nose when you came knocking again. That and a nice handwritten fuck you note. But I didn't and to be fair, that was kind of my fault. Thank you though, for letting me know how absolutely stupid of an idea it was not two weeks later.
I hate that I spent so much time pining over you. Still do, actually. I hate that I let the experience of you define me enough to close myself from everyone else. From all those other absolutely decent guys out there (okay, overkill with the decent description but shut up, I'm still talking). I hate that I let you grow under my skin so much, I actually started to like having you there.
I hate that I still think of how soft your lips are, or your hands, or your body or anything concerning you. It's been three years. I should've gotten the hell over you by now. Not that you even mattered that much Oh, who am I kidding?
I hate that this feels (yes that is a word, get over it) are strong enough for me to find it necessary to write a story about but you know what, fuck you. I am going to heal, and I am going to write and I am going to oscillate between hating and loving you until this story ends. Hopefully, but the time it does, I'd have figured out what the hell to do with myself too.