...dear (insert name here)...

I want to stop being a self-centred/selfless bitch. It sounds like a contradiction in terms doesn't it? But really it makes perfect sense. I want to stop being the "hasn't got past it" girl who still cares if the other is hurting. I need to pick one extreme or the other I think, not this haphazard collecting of random extracts of both. Either that or plant my feet firmly in the middle ground that is "civility". No more, no less.

I want to be as tough and cool as Melissa and say "Bye bitch", in the same context as she said it once, and have the scene played out in much the same way. Complete with guy standing slack-jawed staring after retreating hot-ass girl who just showed him his place (i.e. "somewhere over there").

A 4.2 second encounter or lack thereof left me with three hours of one too many thoughts. Then, in my usual vein of dealing with stress in a healthy and productive manner, I tossed back half a beer that wasn't mine, which mixed with the two beers and one Swig Newton that I had already had, all of which mixed with my antibiotics and the two Bextra I shouldn't have taken to create a melange that threatened to become "something wicked this way comes". At some point later, I smoked in the park with the old lady who swallowed a fly (all three of them), played metaphorical (not really metaphorical, but for lack of a better word) Hot Potato with shoes, and sat lamely on a swing set while Ashley flew through the sky beside me.

It looked quite freeing actually, her swinging. I'd like to go back tomorrow and give it a whirl. And while I'm up there, throw my problems into the wind, so they say.

Who are they?

You know. The proverbial ones. The ones whose lives are perfect and thus have the time to sit around telling the rest of us how to do it.

Back at home, still in my pretty skirt, still in my pretty shoes, I thought of my pretty life and how much I would like to drop it into the corner of my room to collect dust. I want to leave it and find a new one somewhere. There should be trade-in shops for things like this.

I tried to write you an email tonight. I got about two lines in when I realized the intoxicated verbal incontinence bit has already been done. Who needs ditto anyway? What I need is a psych-iatrist/ologist/otherapist. Otherwise one morning you'll wake to find there really is an inebriated conversation in your inbox, blinking obnoxiously. And you won't want to open it. Maybe you're worried about what I might say, or if I will ask more hard questions. Maybe you're just tired.

I'm really tired.