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We weren't born with a name, we were given a name. A hedgehog doesn't have a name. It's just a nameless thing with a handful of flesh and skin and a beating heart. A hedgehog doesn't even know it doesn't have a name.
 
 
   
 
Monday, April 30, 2007
 
So I'm an uber-bitch. I am.

Me: You've got to see 300, it's great!
Him: Damn I was just going to ask you out to watch that movie, now you've gone and spoiled it. Guess I'll have to ask you out to another movie.
Him: This is the part where you're supposed to say "I'd love to catch a movie with you."
Me: Really? I'm supposed to say that?

If I were me, I'd slap myself and call me names prescribed to genitalia, and worse.

I just can't help myself. When a man acts like a total wanker or smartmouth, it just automatically sets off this major bitchiness within me. I just want someone to be himself. To try to impress or be funny, is definite failure with me. Why am I like that? Why am I so harsh? I've just had enough of all that pretentious shit. I'm looking for sincerity and it seems that it's a harder task than locating Atlantis.

I can see it now, I'm gonna die alone and bitter and wretched, with a dog on my lap.

The man I'm searching for doesn't exist. The men I'm interested in end up interested in my friends. The men that are interested in me are absolute tools.
I fear that being alone for such a long time is going to harden me inside, and when the right guy comes along, I won't know how to open up to him because I'm so jaded and dead inside. I can feel myself already slowing withering up. I can't remember the last time I had a crush on someone. Much less try to recall when I really liked someone. And butterflies in the stomach? That's alien to me now.

My friend sent me some ridiculous 'Love Calculator' thing, those things you do when you're in primary school. I had to fill in three crushes. And I had to rack my brain for even one. And I made up the other two. How pathetic.

"My soul is like an expensive piano that's been locked up, and someone's lost the key."
Irena, Chekhov's Three Sisters.

 

 
   
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