An exercise in futility.

Ugh. I was never going to be that girl. Begging, helpless, crying. Spilling. The "No one will ever love you like I do" girl. But it's true. I promised myself I wouldn't break, and took it very seriously. Clearly, I need to work on my level of commitment to my own commitments, because I feel like the walking fucking dead. Where are those pesky vampires when you need them to suck you soulless? Cause I'm not sure I want mine anymore. (I'm anxiously awaiting the sequel to Eclipse, FYI - classic seventh grade mystical melodrama, albeit completely and totally adorable and jealousy inducing, I'll admit it.. god, I'm jealous of a fictional character.. wonderful).

I swear though, before this year I never would have considered myself a masochist. Now, I'm not so sure. You see, you think I'm so pessimistic all the time, but there is one thing I've never stopped hoping for, and never will. This is somewhat of a caveat in the inability I have to commit to ANYTHING, as Sullivan so perceptively pointed out yesterday. By all means, what I would like to be doing right now is having a complete breakdown, but I'm just logical enough that it doesn't work. I can't cry anymore, just smoke and smoke and sleep to dream. I can't not get my shit done because apparently even in the midst of heartbreak (ew), I have some degree of self-preservation kicking in. And, quite frankly, it is so much less satisfying.