My heart, no, that weird sensation in my chest sort of *near* my heart, or above it, something, feels dashed. Feels like it just sat on a cheap carnival ride for seven straight sessions and is now someplace beyond dizzy.
An old friend who had discovered me through my blog, someone I'd broken with years ago because I didn't have the energy for the relationship, just shat all over me. Again. This, after I sat last night, late, on Twitter, and discussed my suicidal tendencies with various Twitter fellows, both intimate and barely acquainted. I was sobbing between sneezes and coughs and phlegm-dispersions (I have another fucking cold -- or I buy phlegm at black-market prices and revel in it when no one is looking -- you decide) as I wrote the things I did on Twitter, and felt so low and ashamed after. A broken thing. I am a broken thing. And all who care to escape the rock under which they dwell to peer into the intertubes' dank portal are now potentially aware of that pathetic item.
Today, rather than inquire as to whether my health was robust and fine and vibrant, or whether I was a lukewarm mess (undeserving as I am of being described as even a hot mess), she simply told me that I am a gigantic piece of shit. Because I am, in her mind, irresponsible. And other words that begin with "I."
"I" managed to avoid telling her to fuck off, in so many words, because I knew I would regret it. Instead, I told her I don't want to hear from her again.
This is gross. I am barely capable of holding a pencil between my fingers, *that* is how weak I've grown, and I am told, by someone I chucked a thousand years ago, someone whom I should've never allowed back in, it is affirmed to me by this person that I am worthless. Sure. I shouldn't let it pierce. But the weak parts of me, which are all of them, say, go ahead. Believe her. She's right.
