I’m feeling really blue and bitchy. I just want to lash out. I know that’s not very productive but I bet if he was here I would pick a fight. He says he doesn’t respond, he won’t satisfy by engaging in the fight but instead stays calm and reasonable. Yep, that would drive me nuts but with me I bet he will have met his match.

I’m a picker. I’ll pick and stick and goad searching for the chink in the armor. Then once I find it I stick the knife in and twist. I’ve been told I”m quite good at it, at hurting with words. I’ve been told I have an uncanny knack for finding just the right spot and then plunging my fist in to rip you apart by the gut.

Is it something I am proud of? Not particularly. Is it something I will engage in purposefully? Some what. I certainly don’t think about what I’m doing when I do it but I do know that when I’m cruising for a fight I will do it. Is that purposeful? I don’t know.

I wrote an email earlier that had it been said in person would have been seriously acidic. Was it acidic in writing? I don’t know I’m sure I’ll hear about it if it was.

I just want to reach up and smack the crap out of his face. I just want to hurt him. Why? I really don’t know. I suppose because I am hurting. Someone once told me that when I want to connect and don’t know how I start a fight. Maybe that’s all this is just wanting to fucking connect. I want to spend time with him, I want to know that I’m important to him. I’m tired of being patient and understanding. I’m always patient and understanding with everybody in my life. Just for once I want someone to move me to the head of the line. Just for once I want that patience and understanding to be rewarded but it never is. Not with K, not with G and not with Maitre…

Yes Maitre, I know this isn’t fair. I know why I can’t be at the head of your line and I knew it when I stepped into your cue. But you know what? I’m not feeling very fair. Being fair doesn’t get me anything. Life isn’t fair it walks all over you.

So in the end I just want to smack you, spit in your face, pound on your chest, scream, yell…and then…eventually… sob. Why can’t I ever come first with anyone?

Hell, maybe I’m still just sick and run down, and so vulnerable to my sadnesses.