I'm fucking happy he's going to fucking Greece
because it means I'll be given one fucking day without him just fucking smacking his perfection in my fucking face (for those not in the know, this amount of profanity means I'm upset.)
The Problem (with full importance given to the capitalization) is that he Just Doesn't Feel the Same Way About Me. Widespread, informal polling reveals:
A)That there's no real reason he fucking shouldn't, besides (obviously) the bare-bones fact that he doesn't
B)He so DOESN'T.
Imagine (if you would be so very kind) that A Boy You Liked gave you a book on Semiotics and wrote, on the front page,
Look! Sam!
It's hidden right
on the surface!
Much luck finding it.
love,
d.
Because he gave me such a book with exactly that inscription. And it's like, really, THE MOST AMBIGUOUS THING EVER. In every possible way, it literally goes both ways.
UGH.
(I really hate this particular vicinity (meant in a technical/etymological, reading-the-link-will-definitely-clarify-what-I-mean kinda way] of feelings. This whole "Why does he have to be so fucking obviously aware of the fact that I'm infinitely Not Good Enough for him?" thing. On a half-as-"real"-as-it-should-be level, I totally "know" that one ends up with whomever one 'deserves,' &c. [i.e., the in-the-particular-context about Alison conversation Julie & I had in Greece]; that 'knowledge,' not being sufficiently well-absorbed/effective, fails to console me at all. At the same time, I know that I'm really just being a little bitch about it [and in the words of Murs, "Little bitches get slapped in the mouth; that's just how it happens"] At that same time, I can't really help it, and it makes me feel even worse.)
So, yeah. Also, it's fucking 5:40am.
Typical.
-sam
The Problem (with full importance given to the capitalization) is that he Just Doesn't Feel the Same Way About Me. Widespread, informal polling reveals:
A)That there's no real reason he fucking shouldn't, besides (obviously) the bare-bones fact that he doesn't
B)He so DOESN'T.
Imagine (if you would be so very kind) that A Boy You Liked gave you a book on Semiotics and wrote, on the front page,
Look! Sam!
It's hidden right
on the surface!
Much luck finding it.
love,
d.
Because he gave me such a book with exactly that inscription. And it's like, really, THE MOST AMBIGUOUS THING EVER. In every possible way, it literally goes both ways.
UGH.
(I really hate this particular vicinity (meant in a technical/etymological, reading-the-link-will-definitely-clarify-what-I-mean kinda way] of feelings. This whole "Why does he have to be so fucking obviously aware of the fact that I'm infinitely Not Good Enough for him?" thing. On a half-as-"real"-as-it-should-be level, I totally "know" that one ends up with whomever one 'deserves,' &c. [i.e., the in-the-particular-context about Alison conversation Julie & I had in Greece]; that 'knowledge,' not being sufficiently well-absorbed/effective, fails to console me at all. At the same time, I know that I'm really just being a little bitch about it [and in the words of Murs, "Little bitches get slapped in the mouth; that's just how it happens"] At that same time, I can't really help it, and it makes me feel even worse.)
So, yeah. Also, it's fucking 5:40am.
Typical.
-sam