so 1/2 a bottle of jack later and all i really accomplished was passing out.
i’m still so fucking mad i can barely see straight.
mainly mad at myself for caring so much about a boy that doesn’t give a flying fuck if i live or die. no matter what he says or what i tell myself or what i let myself believe it’s becoming painfully clear that he really doesn’t give a fuck either way.
i could live for a million years.
i could be eaten by a pack of wild dogs.
i could come down with a debilitating, disfiguring terminal disease.
and he wouldn’t be affected either way. he cares no more for me than he does about any of the other millions of strangers milling about this god forsaken town. and that’s the most crushing realization: he’d probably be much nicer to a stranger on the street. or at least care more about them. he’d at the very least acknowledge their existence. he’d stop to take the time to have a conversation with a complete fucking stranger before he’d ever let a single solitary thought about me enter his mind.
in short: the rockstar’s life is fanfuckingtastic without me.
my life, however, is currently sucking big floppy donkey dick. and the fact that he’s going on all hunky dory when i’m spending pretty much 23.5 hours a day missig him like crazy is making me feel even more like shit.
