you can run, run, run. but i'll be running next to you.
I'm trying to be stronger, but it's a lot harder than I remember. I'm trying to be happy, but it seems impossible at this juncture in my life. It's as if everything keeps piling on me and the people who want to throw it on me -- my family, my professors, my friends, the parking attendants, my ex-boyfriends -- they're all standing on the sidelines and laughing at me as I try to deal with it all.
I can't juggle. Didn't I tell you this already? Everything is bound to hit the floor sooner or later because my luck always runs out.
Comparing myself to Jenny Lewis and trying to imagine Blake Sennett dumping her doesn't help anymore. I just cry even more because my poor lady, my poor idol. She was crushed by the one man she loved. "I've been in love only once," Blake, you know she's talking about you.
But you, I can't sing this line anymore. "I've been in love only once," because it's not true. Twice. As much as you didn't feel it, I did.
I have to write this paper comparing myself to a fictional character and I chose Carrie Bradshaw. I've always been a big Sex & The City fan, but I started watching it a lot recently. And the comparisons are endless. So, in a way to help myself out, to make things seem clearer to me, I relate every possible thing in my life to her's.
Most noticeably, the love interests. At first, I thought he was my Mr. Big and you were my Aidan. Then, I thought maybe you'd be my Mr. Big. Then I thought maybe Jack Berger because he was the weakest interest in her life, but I couldn't do that to you. Then I figured it out, it all fit in my mind.
You were my Aleksandr Petrovsky. You were so beautiful and everything seemed so perfect. But no matter how much love and time and gifts you showered upon me, I was always alone in the bed. In the end, you were still the boy who slapped me in Paris.
And maybe it hurt him to watch Carrie leave, maybe he missed her, maybe he did love her. But I assumed he moved on quickly after her, so why why why should it surprise me any more to watch my very own Aleksandr Petrovsky move on? Why should it hurt?
Today would have been six months and it's been a month since you left me. And they can all tell you that I'm fine, that it doesn't hurt me as much anymore, but I can't keep hiding it. I can't keep pretending that I'm okay with this, because I'm not. And I know you know this.
This week, I've been extremely honest with everyone about everything. And to continue this in good fashion, I just want to tell you that it still hurts, that I'm not over you, and I don't know when it'll happen. How long did it take Jenny Lewis? How long before she wrote "Breakin' Up" and found it easy to dance around that stage and banter with Blake, the love of her life?
How long before she decided that she couldn't wait any longer?
And I'm not waiting for you, I'm not waiting for you, I'm NOT waiting for YOU. I'm waiting for me. I do affirmations every so often. I look myself in the eye in the mirror and tell myself: "This is what you need." And I know it's true. But I just need my heart to catch up to my head.
I would love to be with you, I'm not going to lie. But insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results. I talk enough shit about people I love to know I'd be doing something extremely insane.
So, I just have to cry some more. I just have to be a little depressed for a bit longer. I have to avoid you at all costs because my heart still breaks at the thought of you. I haven't seen you in a month, I haven't talked to you in almost that long either, but I still remember everything. And I curse myself for having a good memory at times like these. I wish you would fade away so easily because maybe I'd be okay.
Maybe.
"A bigger bowl, a better bone was all you wanted." And I will sing about you for my big break, but I will still weep at the thought of yours.
Cassie told me this quote: My insanity keeps me sane. So maybe indulging in an insane act might help. But I am not the biggest bowl and I am certainly not the best bone in your eyes.
I've been slapped and abandoned in Paris. Can someone please come rescue me and bring me back home?
I can't juggle. Didn't I tell you this already? Everything is bound to hit the floor sooner or later because my luck always runs out.
Comparing myself to Jenny Lewis and trying to imagine Blake Sennett dumping her doesn't help anymore. I just cry even more because my poor lady, my poor idol. She was crushed by the one man she loved. "I've been in love only once," Blake, you know she's talking about you.
But you, I can't sing this line anymore. "I've been in love only once," because it's not true. Twice. As much as you didn't feel it, I did.
I have to write this paper comparing myself to a fictional character and I chose Carrie Bradshaw. I've always been a big Sex & The City fan, but I started watching it a lot recently. And the comparisons are endless. So, in a way to help myself out, to make things seem clearer to me, I relate every possible thing in my life to her's.
Most noticeably, the love interests. At first, I thought he was my Mr. Big and you were my Aidan. Then, I thought maybe you'd be my Mr. Big. Then I thought maybe Jack Berger because he was the weakest interest in her life, but I couldn't do that to you. Then I figured it out, it all fit in my mind.
You were my Aleksandr Petrovsky. You were so beautiful and everything seemed so perfect. But no matter how much love and time and gifts you showered upon me, I was always alone in the bed. In the end, you were still the boy who slapped me in Paris.
And maybe it hurt him to watch Carrie leave, maybe he missed her, maybe he did love her. But I assumed he moved on quickly after her, so why why why should it surprise me any more to watch my very own Aleksandr Petrovsky move on? Why should it hurt?
Today would have been six months and it's been a month since you left me. And they can all tell you that I'm fine, that it doesn't hurt me as much anymore, but I can't keep hiding it. I can't keep pretending that I'm okay with this, because I'm not. And I know you know this.
This week, I've been extremely honest with everyone about everything. And to continue this in good fashion, I just want to tell you that it still hurts, that I'm not over you, and I don't know when it'll happen. How long did it take Jenny Lewis? How long before she wrote "Breakin' Up" and found it easy to dance around that stage and banter with Blake, the love of her life?
How long before she decided that she couldn't wait any longer?
And I'm not waiting for you, I'm not waiting for you, I'm NOT waiting for YOU. I'm waiting for me. I do affirmations every so often. I look myself in the eye in the mirror and tell myself: "This is what you need." And I know it's true. But I just need my heart to catch up to my head.
I would love to be with you, I'm not going to lie. But insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results. I talk enough shit about people I love to know I'd be doing something extremely insane.
So, I just have to cry some more. I just have to be a little depressed for a bit longer. I have to avoid you at all costs because my heart still breaks at the thought of you. I haven't seen you in a month, I haven't talked to you in almost that long either, but I still remember everything. And I curse myself for having a good memory at times like these. I wish you would fade away so easily because maybe I'd be okay.
Maybe.
"A bigger bowl, a better bone was all you wanted." And I will sing about you for my big break, but I will still weep at the thought of yours.
Cassie told me this quote: My insanity keeps me sane. So maybe indulging in an insane act might help. But I am not the biggest bowl and I am certainly not the best bone in your eyes.
I've been slapped and abandoned in Paris. Can someone please come rescue me and bring me back home?