( Cut for private angsting. )

( Cut for whining. Even if it is private. )

I got the "we need to talk" email, and it's not until the weekend or Monday. It's like when Hemi dumped me. Except stated more clearly.

Is it really so hard to just say it's over to me? I'm not all that. I don't give penises gold coatings when they come out of me, I promise. I've checked. Nor do I have beer-flavored nipples.

Just when you thought it was safe to get off the roller coaster, you're back on it. First, there's being Maureen, and Will liking my songs. Then...that. What's next? Stop, life, I can't move this fast.

I never knew that I was property, before, and that after someone dumped me, I remain property. It's fine for him to come around with Minnie, both of them still fucked up, and be assholes, and flaunt the fact that they were probably on a major bender in front of me. Not to mention, being an asshole to me and to Ted. Whatever, I try to be happy ( Read more... )

Guys, I was stupid. I never got around to the research. I'm asking for help. Can you tell me everything you remember from last night? Every weird sound, every thing that got said by the ghosts? Copies of the digital recordings, and the films ( Read more... )

( Cut for the fact that it's long. )

Fuck ( Read more... )

He gave me a guitar.  Not just a guitar, a '62 Vintage Fender Custom.  And an amp.  About three grand worth of guitar/amp ( Read more... )

I...no, never mind. I can't blog about this.

Don't ask. Just don't. Don't ask in person, don't ask on the last entry or the next one, just don't ask.

Pretend I never wrote anything.