Saturday nights suck. The worst. I miss you the most and you are the least miss-able. The least desire-able. Fuck you. Fuck all of this. But not really. It's just hard. It's one am on sunday morning and you're off getting shit-faced drunk. In a white trash outfit. With Shelby. And Ryan. And I hate both of them. They had better fucking kiss-ass like CRAZY when I'm there. Not that they know that I hate them. But honestly.
I'm going to make all the girls fall in love with me. And then they'll feel like shit if they look at you as more than a friend. Thank you, ginabean, darling, for dropping this brilliance on me. Because honestly, I will stop having a crush on a guy if I like his girlfriend or think that they are a perfect couple.

I am so broken. In every way. For one, my heart is a mangled wreck. It is broken. I hang off of every word you say, my mood is completely controlled by how much you seem to care about me at that particular moment. It's pathetic. No one should have that much control over me. But you do. And you unintentionally abuse it. You act nonchalant. You wave things off. You don't really show me you care, you don't PROVE it. And I should have faith. And I do. But I WANT you to prove it. I want that huge confidence boost your affection brings me. I'm addicted. You are my drug, and I am addicted. So then when you go out and party on Saturdays and show me the part of you I don't want to see, I crash. It's like, instead of getting a hit of the one I love, I get a hit to the gut. Instead of getting the daily recommended dosage of my angel, I get part of the magic of being in love wrenched out of me.
You know how I used to be content? Before I was in love? Here's the thing about that. When you aren't in love, it's like you're living on a diet of bread and water. Plain white bread, pure clean water. But then, you fall in love. And suddenly there's strawberries and mangos and cookies and chocolate and squash and pasta and tomatoes and sushi and cakes and pies and apples and cherries and potatoes and butter and salt and waffles and fish and frosting and crackers and peanut butter and nutella and jelly and marshmallows and ice cream and popsicles and wonton soup and potstickers and tofu and carmel and starbursts and peeps and cocoa and tea and wine and hot chocolate and starbucks and coffee and smoothies and cranberry raspberry juice and crystal light and ravioli and propel and stufff.
And once you get that whole buffet and more, you just CAN'T go back to water and bread. Maybe bread and water used to be enough. It was fine. You could use more, but you didn't need and barely considered wanting it.
But now. Now, you are doomed. Because you have a taste of the forbidden fruit and now that ALL YOU CAN THINK ABOUT. The bread is now bland, the water is pointless. Life is dull and dreary and boring without that amazing one person that adds all the passion and flavor.

and that's all for now

-lostt

If you called me tonight, I might just end it. Part of me is so fed up with being your second choice. I know it's just because you're excited to be in a new place. I know it's just because you're a silly boy. I know you wouldn't do it if you knew how much it hurt. But you don't. And it sucks. A lot. I make time. I stay up, I send letters, I text you, I leave you wake-up voicemails. I pour my heart out to you in every single way I can, leaving that poor stupid organ a knotted, mangled shadow of the whole bit we started with.
Part of me has moved on. Your best friend is the sweetest boy I've talked to in a while. Which is stupid, because he is just as sweet or rude as any other boy. Maybe it's just because the only boy I've talked to for so long has been you. And you went from amazing to perfect to fail. Your sweet, considerate act slipped as soon as you had more pressing matters to look at for yourself.
You're selfish. We all are, but I just hadn't seen this side of you in regards to me. I let myself believe that you cared enough about me to warrant me some special get-out-of-douche-free card. Apparently not. You love me, of that I'm sure. Scratch that. You think you love me. That much I'm sure of. Who knows if you truly do or not. I sure as hell hope so. I hear unrequited love is a bitch. I just wish you could see what an ass you are sometimes. For example, talking to me on the phone for the first time in days just might be more important than a game of capture the flag that you then bailed on for Star Trek. Riiight. Cool kid. Leave the hot, adoring girl on the webcam so you can go consider and turn down the chance to hide a piece of cloth somewhere on campus and sprint around looking for it. *shrug*
Oh. Please don't drink. I know you think you're invincible. You aren't. And even though it is your body, it's not. Part of loving and being loved is realizing that your actions are solely your own anymore. Everything you do, say, or decide now affects the life of this person who's heart you're holding. It kills me that my eating isn't just my own little torture. So I don't tell you. I bet you're one of the few who doesn't know. But I know how much it would hurt you (assuming you care) and so for that reason, I protect you from it by not discussing it. And I don't want you destroying your liver or becoming a drunk. Really. You weren't this way before. God. I miss little parts of the old you.

And really, there's nothing wrong. I should be stronger, this isn't that bad. Part of me is offended though. Part of me knows I deserve better and that part is just picking apart your actions for all the little faults that prove I could do better. And I could. But I don't want to.

But if you called tonight, you're in for a doozy. I'm hurt and stressed and ready to fight. Or cry. Part of me has moved on. Part of me WANTS to fall for your best friend, as much pain as misery as I know that would cause on all fronts. It'd kill you, that's for sure. But it would also kill me. He might be the right choice in the end. For now, he and I can be friends. I need someone to fix all the little dents and scratches you're leaving on my heart. Every time you go through one of these dick-ish periods, it kills me. I love you so much, darling, and it hurts so bad to not feel like you love me back. Even if you do. I just want to hear it.

Call me. Try it. As if you called the last time you said you would. Good luck, asshole.


def_lost



I'm sorry I called you an ass. It felt good at the time.