You wouldn't believe how angry I get when you're not around. If only I could hold on to it when you're in front of me. All I want to do is touchkisshold even though I know I shouldn't.

I want to tell you that this is over and what a terrible idea it was from the start. If you wanted a casual fuck you picked the wrong friend. I told you that 2 months ago. I don't need to learn anything else about you. Every new revelation just makes this worse. I never asked for kind words from you. Didn't bait you to tell me how you love the way I hold you. Is this the way all men are? Of course I let myself be taken advantage of again. Let myself be guilted into consolation cocksucking and putting up with the way you never take "no" for an answer. This is not a negotiation. I will not trade my body for your fake affection.

Anxious, nervous, self-conscious, weird in that "maybe I should see a doctor about this" kind of way but also in an "uninsured, don't wanna depend on drugs for social interaction, too proud to get help, maybe I'm overreacting" kind of way. Constantly lying to myself that I am totally happy with how I'm living my life while simultaneously hating my job, lack of motivation, and jealousy toward people who are supposed to be my friends. I have a special talent for allowing my heart to become irreparably broken by boys that have never seen me naked. Annually, I get naked with boys who don't treat me well and have substance abuse issues. We awkwardly dance around my sexual dysfunction and I become a crazy, defensive monster who tries to be cool while she quietly implodes. We never speak again. Put an unattainable boy on a god-like pedestal. He thinks I am joking when I propose marriage (or is probably just being polite because... well, you are reading this). Trust issues abound, I constantly fear that I am being used, misled, and deceived by people who claim to care about me. Worry that I am disappointing my family with my boring, meaningless life. Feel shitty. Feel shittier for allowing myself to feel shitty. Talk to friends about it. Feel shittier for burdening friends with my self-centered, trite bullshit. Write pathetic blog posts like this one. Feel shittier for being the kind of person who whines about her life on the internet. Fuck. Curse too much. Listen to a lot of sad, quiet music. Go to shows because it used to be so fun when I was younger and I just keep hoping that it will be again. Feel old. Go to things alone as a "fuck you" to couples culture or because I am too scared to get turned down by friends or because I have been ditched. Feel shitty. Fresh air would do me good. Long to throw a baseball, catch a frisbee. The thought of contacting someone to join me and their possible rejection is too much to deal with. Maybe I will just stay in tonight. Check my phone, email, facebook, twitter, tumblr hundreds of times as if refreshing them is going to make correspondence appear. Consider deleting all of them and moving to a shack in the mountains or back in with my parents. Make little bargains with myself about my diet and my behaviors because those things are easy to control and my emotions are not. Lurk out Craigslist for potential friends (because romantic relationships are not things that people like me are meant to be a part of) but feel too scared to answer any posts, let alone post one. It would probably end up all scary and word-vomity like this anyway. I shouldn't spend the whole day in bed. I'm going to go clean my house now.

lufituaeb

Somewhere across town,
you are laying with a lover
who is pressing her fingerprints
into your back like wet cement.

I wonder if she looks like me, if you fell
for her features like rearranged furniture.
Are we palindrome women? She is beautiful,
I am unpronounceable.

She must be your favorite
place in Minneapolis. I am
a souvenir shop: where you go
to remember how much people miss you
when you’re gone.

-Sierra DeMulder

How Did You Get This Number

“If you have to ask someone to change, to tell you they love you, to bring wine to dinner, to call you when they land, you can’t afford to be with them. It’s not worth the price, even though, just like the Tiffany catalog, no one tells you what the price is. You set it yourself, and if you’re lucky it’s reasonable. You have a sense of when you’re about to go bankrupt. Your own sense of self-worth takes the wheel and says, “Enough of this shit. Stop making excuses. No one’s that busy at work. No one’s allergic to whipped cream. There are too cell phones in Sweden.” But most people don’t get lucky. They get human. They get crushes. This means you irrationally mortgage what little logic you own to pay for this one thing. This relationship is an impulse buy, and you’ll figure out if it’s worth it later.”

— How Did You Get This Number by Sloane Crosley

I want someone who will help me work through being sad instead of just treating it like an inconvenience.