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postal
2005-04-26 @ 4:46 p.m.
Jesus F. Christ. For two fucking hours that dumb bastard calls and tells me that everything is okay. It's like I should be mesmorized by an apology after he continuously calls me when he knows that I hate talking on the phone, and I hate the sound of the ringer.
I was in love once. Now I'm sad and alone all the time, even in his presence. I want to cut. Luckily I'm too exhausted to get out of the bed.
Only my cat knows how sad I am. I think I need to take my full dose of Lithium, even though it makes me feel retarded. I don't care when people hurt me--at least I care less. Underneith this facsade, there is a postal worker waiting to express her intolerance for assholes. Perhaps I have intermittant explosive disorder--I am waiting for the explosion.
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