Insomnia

What am I doing up? What the hell am I doing awake at quarter after five in the morning?

I know what I was doing at this time when I last stayed the weekend at Platteville. It hurts like no one's business to remember. I shouldn't have gotten up...but there was laundry in the dryer still, and I wasn't ready to resign myself to hardcore nudity for the next two days. Oh, what twisted webs we weave. My eyes are sticky (it's time to throw away these contacts), my heart is heavy (time to throw that away, too), and I can't sleep. God, but I wish I could. All I have are Nietzsche books to keep me company and the promise that with time comes healing.

Pfah.

With time comes healing? I know what could heal me. He does, too. Fuck you, Boy-Who-Hurt-Me. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I don't need your sarcasm. I don't want a class with you. I want you to show up at my door with a letter of confession and I want you to tell me why you've decided to lie, to laugh, and to apply "that fatal knife" to me again and again. Maybe then I won't have to sit in a deserted computer lab with nothing but my keys for solace, and maybe then I won't have to sit and listen to the birds as they sing at first light and remember that when I was there with you, they sang the same songs.

Oh, now that's pathetic. "Sang the same songs." Why does that hurt, too? To everyone else, I've recovered from that blunder. Here's a secret, though...

I haven't.

I'm still small and fragile inside. Still wishing I could rewind the clock and instead of going there as was insisted, I wish I would have gone to sleep (like I wanted). Is it because you pushed me to feel? I handled those disgusting feelings well enough before -- it wasn't a problem, you know -- but after the Christmas lights and Ours, I found myself afraid to even think. You bastard. Fuck you. It's all your fault.

I'm going to bed now, I think. A friend from back home is coming to visit Wednesday, and we're going to tear up Madison like there's no tomorrow. If I can find the funds (donation, anyone?), I may stop in and get my nose pierced...finally. This weekend should prove fun, if I can manage to reign in my anger and confusion. Oh, it will be fun. I'll make it fun, if nothing else. I will fucking make it fun.

There. Behave yourselves, dolls. Let me know how events in your world are shaping up.