I started this blog as I have every diary ever: with the full intention of regular entries followed shortly after with the full-realization that Ize A Boring Bitch. Since my last entry I have broken up with Piercer Dude (through a voicemail, no less), seen (some members of) Wu-Tang live, started a Facebook and entered an ongoing period of depression.
First, why I broke up with Piercer Dude: I liked him way too much. Stupid - yes; cowardly - obviously; complete necessary - I'm starting to doubt. I say it was stupid because I'm not one to quit on people ever. Not necessarily a good thing all the time since some douchebags should be dropped sooner than others but PD wasn't a douchebag. He was super-cool. Too super-cool. I had been up one morning (a morning after I was supposed to see him but he ended up going out and getting hammered with his friends instead) and thinking far too much. I read through our text messages and noticed how one-sided they'd become. He hardly had anything to say to me (not even the rudimentary bullshit I adored like "Slept til 3:30... WINNING") and every text I sent got a different version of just "LOL". He didn't miss me nor was he trying to see me so it seemed just a matter of waiting to see when his interest would pique again. I hate waiting. It's the worst thing ever. So, in the spirit of ending a thing before it got spoiled (think: Seinfeld - didn't get canceled but didn't wait neither), I decided to call. Initially my cowardice would stretch to breaking up over the phone so I wouldn't have to look into his gorgeous pierced face with those unique scars and cheap glasses that were so becoming of him but then I heard his voicemail message and realized OMG I FUCKING LOVE HIS VOICE HOW IS THIS GOING TO WORK TFJHSGKJHJ. Before I knew it, the beep had sounded and instead of hanging up, I stammered my way through my first break-up that didn't involve me tearing apart his character or threats for a restraining order. After about 15 seconds of talking to myself, I hung up and let out a deep breath that sounded like "huuufuuuuuck". I told myself I would never spend another moment waiting for a PD text message and life would be roses again.
NAW. THAT AIN'T HAPPEN.
I miss him so much. His absurdly messy room, his dry tattooed hands, those cheap Wal-Mart glasses and the way he fucked with his hair. Sometimes, when I'm minding my own business, no thoughts of wrong-doing nor anarchistic ideas, that's when the memory of his tiny little white-boy mouth and the gorgeous shape it made when he pronounced his surname on our first date will pop in my head and I feel a pang in the spot where my cold black heart would still be sitting if I hadn't sold it to the Devils of Yorkshire for a Famous Amos cookie that one time.
What's really pathetic is as I'm sitting here thinking of those stupid hands that never stayed still for too long, the fact remains: he never called me back. Never sent a WTF text. Never heard from him again.
It hurts. I deserve it though. I know I do.
I'm not a very good person, Internet.
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