every now and again i think of you. but only every now and again, which is hardly ever, really. and when i do it, i despise it. i haven’t quite gotten around to figuring out — for certain — if i despise you or not; but what i do, in fact, despise is the way i’ll be annoyed and frustrated when you pop into my mind. the way i will feel sad and lost and angry and bitter and used. the way i’ll feel it’s all my fault for feeling that way in the first place, just because every now and again i’ll think of you. and it’s stupid. because it’s obvious that i don’t even need you in the slightest. i guess, or i think, or whatever. and anyway not really. because i’m doing fine, and life has moved on and went on and keeps going on no matter what and it’s all without you and 98% of the time it goes on without even the slightest thought of you at all. but if i’m to be 100% completely honest with myself — which, honestly, i hate doing — i’d have to say that the part i despise most, of thinking of you, is the one solitary, sly, maddening thought that asks those pesky questions. which, in truth, are almost peskier than any errant thought that happens to include you. those questions the questions i hate the questions and they come and they come and i wish they would stop because i don’t care i don’t. really, i don’t and i just want them to stop but they come. “are you thinking of me?” or “do you think of me?” and most especially “am i worth thinking about?”. and it’s my fault it’s always my fault really, because i bring it on myself. i always do. when i’m alone; when i’m in a room full of people; when i’m full of quiet, suffocating thoughts; when i’m surrounded by raucous noise and commotion. i bring it on myself and maybe that’s what i despise most of all. because it’s stupid, really. it’s stupid and you’re stupid and i’m stupid for even thinking about you when you can’t even be bothered with me, really. it’s too stupid to even think about…but sometimes i do. sometimes, very few times, hardly ever any of the time…which is why i think that thinking of you is quite possibly the stupidest thing that i could do. because it’s pointless and useless and meaningless and i don’t even miss you. i used to, i think. and maybe the only thing i really miss now is when i used to miss you. maybe, possibly, but not likely. really, the thing i miss the most is a time when everything about you wasn’t merely wasting my time.
but i don’t…miss you.
