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Monday, 17 November 2008

It feels.

Cold.

I'm burning up with paranoia.

Its like Alain de Botton said. Pretending nothing is fucking wrong, and there is no way to address the fucking problem. He's a genius. But he doesn't tell us what the fuck to do in situations like these.

She continues pretending.

And I continue bleeding.

I know I told you, Eugene, that I am not one to play such games. But I think, a little indifference to her would do me a world of good.

I like her; I love her. But she doesn't seem to like me; love me. I smsed her last night. She didn't reply. I smsed her at noon. She replied at 3pm. Pretense, pretense, pretense. All is but a lie. There is no coincidence; it is too much to be a coincidence.

Enough.

Two can play at this game of pretense. "huh? what's wrong? is anything wrong? haha, you're overreacting. Aren't we just friends?"

I will not lose. I will crush this game, and if she continues to cling to it, I will crush this like; this love, into the broken shards that it probably is already.

The cutting begins now.

3:04 pm