Sometimes sending an email is the most difficult thing to do...
I hate having Catholic guilt. I hate those feelings of "I should Jess up and just do this." I hate the feelings that have been constricting my heart for the past two days. I've been distracting myself with mania, cleaning my apartment, trying to rationalize that he doesn't need to know. It's pointless, innocuous, and I would be more of a nuisance than helping.
Then I remember the long conversations, the anger, the slamming of dashboards, and the heated words. And I think a part of me hates me right now.
Delete, rewrite, overwrite, backspace. Repeating over and over again.
Is it because Thelma has been contacting me more? Am I seeing similarities again? I left her, so long ago. Then my brain gets all spun about.
My life is different now. There's raccoons with banjos. There's Hustla. There's Mimosa and MFNJ. It's all different.
Then why am I guilty? I didn't commit any wrongs. I saw a picture, and thought to text someone.
Why didn't I text Beb? She wouldn't have appreciated it, no communication for four years, then random, "oh hai I found a pic of when we were in love, kthnx."
Black letters in a white box, white letters covered in a black box...
... oh, screw you, Catholic guilt.
Then I remember the long conversations, the anger, the slamming of dashboards, and the heated words. And I think a part of me hates me right now.
Delete, rewrite, overwrite, backspace. Repeating over and over again.
Is it because Thelma has been contacting me more? Am I seeing similarities again? I left her, so long ago. Then my brain gets all spun about.
My life is different now. There's raccoons with banjos. There's Hustla. There's Mimosa and MFNJ. It's all different.
Then why am I guilty? I didn't commit any wrongs. I saw a picture, and thought to text someone.
Why didn't I text Beb? She wouldn't have appreciated it, no communication for four years, then random, "oh hai I found a pic of when we were in love, kthnx."
Black letters in a white box, white letters covered in a black box...
... oh, screw you, Catholic guilt.