I'm letting go of all my downer thoughts. In no time, there'll be one less sad robot.

I sat on the edge of my bed for nearly ten minutes contemplating whether I wanted to write or whether I wanted to sleep. I made a compromise with myself and am now skillfully attempting both. I'm lying in bed, curled up safely in a fetal position, sucking my left thumb and writing this with my free hand. It's a win-win.

You are unkind and mean spirited for doing this to me. If it was your intention to hurt me and make me feel like less of a person--congratulations. You've succeeded summa cum laude.

I wish so badly wish I would tell you all of this personally; a face-to-face affair would be ideal. It's not that I fear honesty or even confrontation. I'm happy to embrace either if the encounter leads to a reasonable solution for both parties. Our relationship is delicately crafted, more so than any connection I've ever witnessed (let alone had) in my entire life. As much as I would love to clear the air and send the elephant lingering around our empty conversations scampering elsewhere, the cost is simply too high. I'm not willing to engage in another three-month long "he said" "she said" festival. I value what little sanity I have left too much and I won't carelessly let it be decided by any of you ever again.

Enough should have been enough, yet here I am.

The university in which I am five months from attending prohibits any public Internet postings that contain "whining," "complaining," and other expressions of such likeness. I seldom find myself doing either. I talk (or in this case, write.) I talk and I talk and I talk. Late at night, there's a portion of me that wishes I was still oblivious to how dishonest my friends turned out to be because at least then at least I'd have a listening ear. I refuse to explain and re-examine my entire life story every time I feel like talking because that becomes emotionally exhausting after awhile. That's the lone fault in speaking to well-meaning strangers. People don't understand the weight of recent events without knowing the entire story. It's so much deeper than her recent blow--this cold war has been raging much longer than that. Even then, I highly doubt anyone could empathize with my innermost feelings, despite their best intentions. Luckily pour moi, my notebook is already familiar with the beat of my heart and the repercussion of my past.

My eyes are beginning to feel heavy. My physical body is nearly limp (excluding my writing hand) yet I feel like there's a second version of myself screaming so loudly her voice becomes raspy and she's ripping her hair out because she can't find another escape. She's the part of me who coldly stares at the shower tiles until she's able to feel the wages of what she's done.

P.S. Thanks for twisting the knife around a little more--I found an extraordinary linear topic.

P.P.S. I bought a picture frame exhibiting the famous opening lines of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How Do I Love Thee?" sonnet and it totally made my week. How nerdy am I?