I think that I actually died yesterday. I remember letting the bathtub fill past my ears and then everything past that is a bit fuzzy.

I fell asleep last night knowing something was missing and I woke up today completely afraid to roll over and open my eyes.

I've decided to give up on life. I choose drugs. Aren't you proud of me? Are you happy now?

Flip. He loves me.
Flip. He loves her.
Flip. He doesn't know who he loves.
Flip. I'm cut off. Shut out. Left to drown myself.

Cheers. The son of a bitch gave me "permission" to "do what I want" for a month. A whole lovely month, and then MAYBE things will change. MAYBE he'll decide to love me again. MAYBE he'll fuck some boyfriend stealing bitch that he works with. MAYBE I should just slit my wrists now.

I know it sounds pathetic. I'm joking (or am I) about suicide over a boy. How Romeo and Juliet of me, only Romeo never broke Juliet's heart twice in one week and then told her she could go skank it up for a month while he got the nerve to think for himself because lovely Rosaline weepy office wear was too much for him.

Oh wait. I'm sorry. He told me she was "a nice girl."

He hates when I do this, this writing about relationship problems shit. Oh well. Too bad. I hope you get your dick stuck in your zipper. I hope she scrapes her teeth on your dick when she's trying to suck it. I hope someone pisses in your gas tank.

You'll never know what you really did to me. You'll never know because I don't plan on talking to you anymore. Have fun at Radiohead, BY YOURSELF. I'm not falling for you anymore.