So I haven’t blogged in almost three weeks. Did you miss me? In a way, I needed that time away from the Internet. It’s a distraction. A horrible distraction. Without the Internet these past three weeks, I’ve been reading more and thinking more. And the thinking is strange. Because I tend to stay up well into the small hours on the Internet ‘til I get tired enough to sleep. That works. I don’t have to think. Lately, I’ve been lying in bed every night in the dark, thinking. Thinking about everything. And reaching grim conclusions. I can pin it all – this unhappiness – on that moment, that moment almost twelve months ago when I said I didn’t want what you were offering. That was my fatal mistake. Now, I would give anything for what you were offering. But I don’t think you’ll offer again.
I have been wonderfully and flamboyantly awful these past twelve months. You told me so. I am not the person I used to be. Am I a dim? Maybe all the cider I’ve consumed this year has affected my brain. Am I promiscuous? I didn’t think there was much wrong with kissing, but I’m beginning to resent those drunken encounters.
You don’t love me anymore. You said it. You tell me now that you do, but I think you’re humouring me. You never used to humour me. Don’t start now.
“A heartbreak isn’t always as loud as a bomb exploding. Sometimes, it could be as quiet as a feather falling and the most painful thing is, nobody hears it but you.”
I have three rules. Three brand new rules guaranteed to get me through this brand new period of distress. Lovely. No cutting, no drinking, no boys.
I wish you were here. More importantly, I wish you wanted to be here.
That thing. This new development. I’m not jealous. Not at all. I’m greedy though. And I think, more than it stung me, it reminded me of how fantastically and obliviously lonely I am. I won’t be able to talk to you for about a week, after which time I’ll calm down, laugh it off and tell you good luck and best wishes and congratulations. In the meantime, I’ll turn this lovely anger I’m feeling inward on myself and see how I get on with that.
On a more factual than emotional note, Leaving Cert results are out Wednesday. Even as I type that, no feeling other than complete and utter indifference floods through me. Well, not floods. It ebbs at best. I don’t care. I dreamt the other night that I got 62 points. I wish for 405. (Actually, I’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately but that’s neither here nor there.) I really don’t mind what happens anymore.
Also, here is a picture of my debs dress:
It is the best picture I could find though that’s not for lack of trying: I spent so long searching for ‘pink Début dresses’ that there are now pink dots in front of my eyes. The dress will obviously look nicer on me. And I won’t be wearing a bolero. Because boleros are for cunts.
I think this post sums up my feelings at the moment. Hope you enjoyed. Naturally, I’ll be blogging more often now and after this post, they’ll probably be a bit more upbeat. But who knows?