T
TheLonelySkeptic
Guest
This is going to sound utterly pathetic.
It seems no matter how much time goes by, no matter how hard I try to push her out of my mind, there she ever remains—help!
How do I forget her! Disregard all the chest-wrenching emotions that are evoked when even the slightest hint of her saunters into my mind—I can’t even stand the thought of her being happy! Help me! D;
She’s dating someone new, now: someone she hooked up with almost immediately after she dragged me across the country on a Greyhound bus that I paid for. That’s fine. I’m fine with that. I wouldn’t be if I still felt something for her; but I don’t. The only thing I feel towards her is utter contempt. It’s as plain as this: I don’t want her to be happy, for the simple reason that I am unhappy. Someone like that—someone who so consciously stepped all over my love and trust—should not be warranted happiness; not while I trudge along in the mire that is my own self-pity.
This is why I get sick to my stomach when I read about her new boyfriend: how wonderful he is; how handsome, how charming, how strong he is. I got sick to my stomach when I read how excited she was to go out swing dancing with this new guy—something I would never be confident enough to do. I get sick to my stomach when she cheerily IMs me, asking how I am, assuming most idiotically that I even want to be cordial with her, let alone friends.
I know what you’re thinking, right? “Oh, dear Liapos! Why don’t you simply stop reading about her!” Hah! You, Dear Reader, have obviously never felt the hunger pangs of the disgruntled stalker! Any hint of dissatisfaction in her life would send me into an orgasmic frenzy of optimism for my own. How callous, you say! How cruel, you say! I say, on what ivory pedestal do you stand?
I sigh. She shouldn’t be happy. Why is she happy? I should be happy. I’m not, though, and as of now all I do—whether it be working on my would-be novel or dragging my ass to school every morning—, everything, it’s all in an effort to live well: to live well, so she can only frown upon what she could have had. Conversely, every time I fail is like a little victory for her.
Yes. It’s wrong. I don’t care.
George Herbert once said, “Living well is the best revenge.” Revenge, yes; but it’s also the surest means of pouring salt into wounds. That’s what it feels like every **** time she smiles.
**** it.
I hope she gets Herpes.
…
Help. >.>
…
It seems no matter how much time goes by, no matter how hard I try to push her out of my mind, there she ever remains—help!
How do I forget her! Disregard all the chest-wrenching emotions that are evoked when even the slightest hint of her saunters into my mind—I can’t even stand the thought of her being happy! Help me! D;
She’s dating someone new, now: someone she hooked up with almost immediately after she dragged me across the country on a Greyhound bus that I paid for. That’s fine. I’m fine with that. I wouldn’t be if I still felt something for her; but I don’t. The only thing I feel towards her is utter contempt. It’s as plain as this: I don’t want her to be happy, for the simple reason that I am unhappy. Someone like that—someone who so consciously stepped all over my love and trust—should not be warranted happiness; not while I trudge along in the mire that is my own self-pity.
This is why I get sick to my stomach when I read about her new boyfriend: how wonderful he is; how handsome, how charming, how strong he is. I got sick to my stomach when I read how excited she was to go out swing dancing with this new guy—something I would never be confident enough to do. I get sick to my stomach when she cheerily IMs me, asking how I am, assuming most idiotically that I even want to be cordial with her, let alone friends.
I know what you’re thinking, right? “Oh, dear Liapos! Why don’t you simply stop reading about her!” Hah! You, Dear Reader, have obviously never felt the hunger pangs of the disgruntled stalker! Any hint of dissatisfaction in her life would send me into an orgasmic frenzy of optimism for my own. How callous, you say! How cruel, you say! I say, on what ivory pedestal do you stand?
I sigh. She shouldn’t be happy. Why is she happy? I should be happy. I’m not, though, and as of now all I do—whether it be working on my would-be novel or dragging my ass to school every morning—, everything, it’s all in an effort to live well: to live well, so she can only frown upon what she could have had. Conversely, every time I fail is like a little victory for her.
Yes. It’s wrong. I don’t care.
George Herbert once said, “Living well is the best revenge.” Revenge, yes; but it’s also the surest means of pouring salt into wounds. That’s what it feels like every **** time she smiles.
**** it.
I hope she gets Herpes.
…
Help. >.>
…