The Journal Entries
21 January, 2012 1832PM
Speak of the devil. The sexy, slender, surreptitious devil.
An hour after I finished writing in this thing last night, Oliver called me. He was drunk, I’m assuming, because he was slurring all over the place and couldn’t finish a whole sentence before he started another one.
I heard he’s leaving to go on tour next weekend. Maybe he’ll forget about me, and I’ll forget about him, and I can finally move on.
Anyway, back to the point: he called me drunk last night, and cursed me out about God-knows-what for twenty minutes. Nevermind the fact that I was crying extremely audibly and begging him to stop. Sure, I could’ve hung up the phone, but what fun would that be? That was the first time I’ve heard from him in close to eleven days.
My best friend, Beck, is trying to set me up with this lad from Surrey, but I’m not really feeling it. She thinks I need a pick-me-up.
No, I need a fucking Xanax.
Once I stole a Xanax out of my mum’s medicine cabinet, but I never got the guts to actually ingest it. I was terrified that she’d notice and make me do one of those home drug screenings, and turn me into the police for stealing her meds. Two days after I swiped it, I placed it back into the bottle and hoped that she hadn’t noticed.
Maybe I should go see someone. As I said an entry (or two?) ago, I’m starting to feel sad again. Surely if I went to a shrink they’d give me some sort of medication? An anti-depressant? An anti-anxiety prescription? Ha. As if I have the money to go to a therapist, anyway.
After I spoke to Oliver last night, one specific phrase kept sneaking its way into my head when I thought I’d finally forgotten about it; it was something that I never thought I’d hear, and something I wish I hadn’t.
“It’s your fault anyway, you cunt.”
I think I’m gonna try and get some rest tonight.
x,
Carlie
An hour after I finished writing in this thing last night, Oliver called me. He was drunk, I’m assuming, because he was slurring all over the place and couldn’t finish a whole sentence before he started another one.
I heard he’s leaving to go on tour next weekend. Maybe he’ll forget about me, and I’ll forget about him, and I can finally move on.
Anyway, back to the point: he called me drunk last night, and cursed me out about God-knows-what for twenty minutes. Nevermind the fact that I was crying extremely audibly and begging him to stop. Sure, I could’ve hung up the phone, but what fun would that be? That was the first time I’ve heard from him in close to eleven days.
My best friend, Beck, is trying to set me up with this lad from Surrey, but I’m not really feeling it. She thinks I need a pick-me-up.
No, I need a fucking Xanax.
Once I stole a Xanax out of my mum’s medicine cabinet, but I never got the guts to actually ingest it. I was terrified that she’d notice and make me do one of those home drug screenings, and turn me into the police for stealing her meds. Two days after I swiped it, I placed it back into the bottle and hoped that she hadn’t noticed.
Maybe I should go see someone. As I said an entry (or two?) ago, I’m starting to feel sad again. Surely if I went to a shrink they’d give me some sort of medication? An anti-depressant? An anti-anxiety prescription? Ha. As if I have the money to go to a therapist, anyway.
After I spoke to Oliver last night, one specific phrase kept sneaking its way into my head when I thought I’d finally forgotten about it; it was something that I never thought I’d hear, and something I wish I hadn’t.
“It’s your fault anyway, you cunt.”
I think I’m gonna try and get some rest tonight.
x,
Carlie
♠ ♠ ♠
It's been two months -_- Holy hell, I didn't realize that it'd been so long! Anyway, hope this is alright :/ Didn't have a chance to proofread it!Comments make me haaaaaaaappy! And I'm sorry if I didn't thank some of you for your comments; it's been so long since I've even looked at this story, and I'm not sure who I have/have not spoken to. I'm so sorry!