the first time a boy rejected me, i was six, and he said it was because i had too much hair.
smoking so much that everything i put in my body gives me a stomach-ache, everyone i come in contact with is part of a scheme to humiliate me, everything i say makes me want to rip my tongue out so that i never speak again. a smoke before we go, a smoke after the meal, a smoke with my coffee, a smoke before the film, a smoke before my shower, a smoke after sex—my life has become a series of disembodied motions compressed between cigarettes.
need to return to a somewhat sober lifestyle. but what would i do instead? breathe.
vic is on his way and there are still several things i need to do to be ready for him (be ready for him—who am i? whose life am i living?) and brunette still hasn’t left. i’m scared. it’s nothing i’m overreacting. or maybe he knows (i smoke waaaay too much). just wait a little longer. just write a couple more things. i hate being like this. when will i be free of the weight of myself?
