Oh Fuck It

Well, I held out almost 30 minutes...

I wasn't going to write about her. That's my new thing is, when I think about her, I say nothing to nobody. I just try to ignore it and keep on trucking. Not going to complain my ass. I hate this shit. I can't get her out of my head. I'm lying here on the couch, trying to do work, listening to quasi-depressing Ryan Adams on repeat and thinking, actually thinking, as in considering with all seriousness, of driving around out there to try and find out where she lives.

I won't to this of course. Even if seeing her and knowing wasn't a bad idea, that's still a little fucking crazy. I've thought for a long time, though, that the only thing separating me from the real wackos is a certain sense of decorum and a respect for other people's space. I have the same strong compulsion to head out the door until I find her. I have the tendency to wallow and the inability to pick myself up and brush of the detritus of broken love and just... fucking... move the fuck on. I'm just better at controlling it. I did say, however, that if I needed to let it out, the blog is where I would do it, so here we are kiddies.

I miss her. I want to have her here in my arms and not talk about anything at all and just love eachother. We ere always good at that part. How many more months/years do we have to deal with this?