Oh how fleeting happiness is when you're the Charlie Brown of dating. That's the thing about bluebirds on your shoulder, I guess--they're a temperamental sort. Make too sudden a move and their little bird hearts can't take it--poof, and all you're left with are some feathers and a pile of shit. Now I'm watching the life and near-death of a relationship in fast forward. Caught in dating purgatory, we're still alive, if not entirely well, and now there's an elephant in the room trumpeting for attention, yet deaf-blind-dumbly ignored by all.
Everything seems fine in person--when we see each other in person. But everything else makes me want to volunteer for experimental emotion reassignment surgery--on a spectrum of flesh-and-blood human to clod of dirt, I'll take anesthetized robot, thanks.
Feeeeeelings, nothing more than...fucking awful hurty painful feeeeelings...
I can see it coming because I've been through it a dozen times before. It's a gradual step-down process, like he's a smoker and I'm the patch. We see each other less. He calls less, texts less. "Well," he sighs, two minutes into a phone conversation, "I just felt like I should call you," his sense of obligation hanging heavy in the air. Then he blames traffic and safe driving practices, raging aloud at the stupidity of other motorists for good measure, before quickly saying goodbye. "TTYL," he says, where L is an unknown variable, representing an undetermined length of time, upon which TTY is entirely dependent.
I haven't felt much like blogging lately. I haven't felt much like doing anything lately. But I have. Things must be done, after all. Blogging among them. Also eating, showering, going to school, doing work, and (only somewhat successfully) sleeping. Life, huh? Just one long string of -ings. (Feeeeelings.) The one -ing I wish I could feel--nothing.