Thursday, May 06, 2004



There's only so much that I can do right now. I could go back and delete things, as if by making them disappear I could move on faster. But I'm an archivist by nature, an historian of my own events and emotions. I brood, I stew, I mope, I wait. Anger makes me feel like I'm going to vomit. Or maybe it's that hangover.

I want to tell a story. It's convoluted and intricate, but I'm not going to go into the whole thing now. Sometime last November X came over to my house. She told me that she had slept with Z, and that she was really sorry about it, that it was an accident, and so on. I was upset, but I think in the end it made me love her more, because I knew that she loved me and wanted to be honest with me.

Now I'm at a point where I don't want to know anything more. I don't want to know anything. And, besides, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all, right?

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