I'd do so elsewhere but this is the only journal where I trust my own anonymity.
If I had a flower I'd pick it innocent petal from petal "he loves me, he loves me not" because not understanding is killing me slowly.
He wants to come over, he wants to see me. Suddenly now he decides that we should slow down, it's a cautionary note, he says. Warnings don't hurt people, he claims, they protect them. Oh true.
But how can they protect me from myself? They can't, so I'm sitting here using writing as a distraction until I can finally go to work and get away.
I love it, working on labor day. Hilarious.
It's better than doing nothing, I suppose. And it's definitely better than doing what I wish I had the will-power to do.