Fast As You Can by Fiona Apple

Sorry about the angst-y teenage letter from earlier.  I'm still trying to work things out.

Please don't think I'm a weird clingy psycho person.

I am but I don't want people to think that.

I cling to those I love because I rarely love.  My body and mind have both been abused long and often enough to ensure the love I have inside stays there.

My heart has grown greedy and refuses to share because that would mean opening for people - proffering something that can't be returned and accepting that there's a part of me out there, wandering the world, far far away from me.

As of this moment, there are several parts of me floating around in the endless abyss of crowded streets and strangers - I will never get them back. 

One of my parts is in the grip of a man who was my first "real" love and that soap opera ended with the discovery I didn't even know his real name.

He took me, had me, tied me up and down while saying he loved me even though he disregarded every one of my safety words and I still don't know what his real name was.

When I was a child, I thought the act of love was a game (I didn't realize I was being raped until years later). 

When I was a teenager, I fooled myself into thinking there was nothing wrong with a secret love because love is love is love and there could never be anything wrong with that.  Until the abortion, that is. Then things weren't so rosy and I realized I'd been had.

I'm an adult now and still have odd connotations with various sex acts and displays of intimacy.

I want someone to love but I'm terrified of allowing myself to do so.

Lori is a fragile and half-broken thing.  Honestly, I really am working towards being whole but it's like one of those nightmares when you're running from a bad guy only to find the grounds become wet cement, drying with your every step.

Shouldn't we all be closed?  Isn't that the safest route to a life without heartbreak or humiliation?  Just stay closed off to everyone and everything, letting only the tiniest morsels of love to leave you and even then, they would only be escaping into the cracked bindings of books or the cheap plastic holding an album...

At the same time, my soul is yearning to be shared.  It's like waking up with only Carpe Diem on your mind and you find out it'll be raining all weekend.

This is the most angst-y day of all days and I apologize for putting this all on you, Internet, but I can't keep it up anymore. I want to be tough and strong but I'm weak and soft.

I'm a liar, too.  And I miss the last man that was in my bed.  I miss him so much.

Letter To Myself

It’s time to get over it.

You haven’t spoken to or seen him in nine fucking months.

He hasn’t tried to contact you in nine fucking months.

You “hung out” for about two months (not even a whole two months) and fucked him a few times.

IT WAS NOT SPECIAL.

IT WAS NOT UNIQUE.

Not to him, anyways.

What he most likely found unique was the ending when a grown woman broke it off in a voicemail.

You broke it off in a voicemail.

Do you remember what you said?  No?  SERIOUSLY?

Dude.  Let it go.

Stop crying about it.  Stop beating yourself up about it.

Do you really think talking to him now is going to change things?

Do you honestly believe going into the shop and apologizing is going to do anything but humiliate you?

Aren’t you tired of humiliation?

Just let it go, man. What’s done is done and THAT is done as fuck.  There’s no going back. You’re not The Doctor, you don’t have a special police box. You’re just a silly girl that made a mistake (several, actually) and can’t stop obsessing about it.

Stop Facebook stalking.

Stop imagining the next time you’ll see him. You’re never going to see him.  Ever.

Stop scripting fake conversations that will never happen because THEY WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

He was never really into you.

It was all one-sided.

Face it.

Learn from it.

Grow.