self pity. eww.

that sucks vicky. and somehow i am so wrapped up in myself that what do i do? i write about myself.

i spend my time chasing boys. boys i don't want to replace boys i think i want to fill some void that i don't know why it exists or if it really exists. what the fuck. something like that. because somehow, after a financially and careerly successful day, i find myself at home balling: throwing myself down on my stupid little mattress pad of a bed crying my brains out, wrecked with bitter disappointment and ugly guilt.

fuck. how do i manage to pull this off? to bring myself into such a loathsome place for no reason? what am i really after with all this shit?

Whoops

Ha. Never mind any mention of Andrew in previous posts. He broke up with me Wednesday night. More confused and somehow full of dread than anything else. Back to those halcyon days of whoremongering and solitary drunkenness.

Sex sober or with feeling is cheap and overrated. Let that be what I take away from my experience with the two guys I tried to date. Let that be my epitaph, for Christ's sake.

Between stale and pathetic, I don't even have scathing comments or a torrential outburst of words. Perhaps I have become passionless.

And I'm silly, stupid, childish, naive, for buying into that illusory kind of beauty.

How completely out of character.