Fuck You Meteor Shower, Fuck You In Your Beautiful, Romantic Fucking Ass

As the day trucks on into night I become more and more unstable. I've had a shit fucking day. I've found myself despondent, staring at the floor for half an hour at a time, literally having to tell myself to blink. I'm so FUCKING MAD at him.

The Leonid meteor shower starts in about an hour. It'll be at it's peak around one a.m. If all were right with the world, I'd be in my lover's arms then, parked on some country side road, awaiting the great black sky's meteoric spray.

But no.

I had a pretty good weekend, considering. Spent most of my time in my room. Worked on various projects including, but not limited to: completing the window pane piece, cleaning the kitchen, making a sadly cobbled beans and rice concoction which is surprisingly winning, and beginning a short story mystically related to all that is currently happening.

No tears all weekend. Not a single one. Not really a tear since Wednesday really. I told him I'd leave him alone all weekend, and I did, save the email I doubt he read til today about him learning to combat panic attacks. But this afternoon has been a mess on my psyche; I went from Saturday night lying in bed, feeling nothing was likely to be recaptured and that I wasn't sure I wanted it to be, to missing him terribly last night, which has only degraded emotionally since. Not as many tears as Wednesday, but those were filled with shock and panic. Today's tears are made of pure depression.

At 8:11 tonight, I sent him the following melodramatic text:

"In a world where our romance flourished instead of being trod upon like so many dying leaves, I believe we'd likely be readying ourselves for meteors."

I immediately went downstairs and polished off my remaining whiskey (approximately an ounce and a half) while talking out my drama with Russ and Kat (housemate and housemate's girlfriend/my friend). I'm feeling less prone to burst into tears now.

I think listening to Luna Sea's first album is helping. Silly butt rock glam punk.

Futile.

I feel like I must keep writing as there is so much I want to say to Andy. About my day. About observations. About life. About the food I ate. About how loving Gaia's been lately, even asking for belly kisses when I get home, her little black furry body writhing about on my bed simply desperate for belly kisses from mommmy. As I wrote that, she lept on my lap, and oh, how she looks at me with pure love.

I miss lighthearted Andy, who even though since day one he's freaked out about the intensity of what's gone on between us, was full of adoration and certainty that I was to be his lady. "I want to spend as much time with you as possible." "I want you all to myself."

The latter when I was combatting residual feelings for The Mexican Who Don't Want Me and continued, probably eternal love/in love for the lad who has been making my life nothing but complicated since April 2008. I didn't feel it was unfair, I knew I was dealing with it and I knew they had and have no influence on my feelings for Andy, but his particular ghost, having throwing him into a tailspinspinspin, well, his love's been reawakened and confusion emotion bears down hard. He thinks it's unfair to deal with this and be with me, or he feels he needs to work it out by himself. And I fucking GET IT. Exes are god damn hurricanes and they don't give two shits about the new relationship. I wonder if I'm the only lady who thinks about that; if someone is dating someone, I don't fuck with that, no matter the circumstances. NEVER. My feelings take a back seat. My needs are put on hold. I know if it's meant to work, it will, when there aren't brain and heart exploding complications afoot. And when it's from the other direction, and I know someone has feelings for me, or I want to pay attention to someone while I'm in a relationship, I continue the situation I am in to its logical end and I put the other feelings away as much as I can. I don't try to fuck myself or anyone else up in the scenario, and it's probably because I'm so often in the position I am in right now.

I need to ramble and ramble because my brain is running at high speed with all these thoughts and my fingers have a case of sober TMT and I've already sent an email today to him on the topic of how he can combat panic attacks, and I promised I'd leave him be this weekend and I know there is no try, only do (thanks, Yoda), so I'm just muscling through all these urges and sating them by writing these meandering blogs. Thanks be to Jesus that I think there are only about four people who are reading them regularly.

I miss him. I hate this current him, whiny, sweeping dramatics, flailing gestures, and it looks like he's having an aneurysm when he tells me he loves me. Pull it together man, none of this is anywhere near as big a deal as you're making it, the "what if" thought process is bullshit and will only make you crazy. You have me. Enjoy me. It'll work out or it won't.

Pleas into the ether, he doesn't read this. Quaintly, he doesn't even have a computer right now.

Honestly, and I feel like somehow I should whisper this in text form (smaller font?): I don't think it's going to work. Not for me and him, not for she and him. Not for any of us.

And now I'm just pissed.

I cried for hours. Hours today. Hour after hour, tears just welled up and tumbled out my eyeballs. I'm sure it'll change shortly, but around seven o' clock, I realised he's just being a fucking drama queen.

I understand the need to be alone and sort out the bullshit that's causing a quagmire.

But we are in love. He is the best thing that's ever happened to me, and he's told me the same thing. With him, I am a better person, the best person I've ever been. I've wrestled with some weighty heart-issues since we first got together, muddling through them knowing he's the right man for me to be with, knowing I needed to settle these things in order to continue being this better, higher quality version of myself, the one that doesn't hold onto lust and love in others just in case the current doesn't work out. I know what I want from him, and that is, very simply, him. I've never been with someone who is both good for me and doesn't bore me. Nor have I been with anyone that causes no anxiety in me whatsoever; I trusted him from day one and have received no input that makes me believe I should act otherwise. I do not feel that I need him, only that I enjoy having him around. I know I have responded in kind and that I've been a loving, trustworthy girlfriend.

But he's let this lovely thing get all fouled up. He works himself into an absolute fit and can't see a way out of it. So he's pushed me away and somehow this is supposed to be less drama for him, and better for me cuz he's freaked out about dealing with an ex girlfriend who only has to text him about an outstanding vet bill to put him into a tailspin.

Just fucking get over it already, move on with your life. Yeah, it's fucking scary to be in love. Oh no! It's way scarier to drive a fucking car; that can actually kill you. And yeah, exes popping up out of the blue frequently cause a general collapse of whatever happiness you've put together for yourself. The point is you see this and you give that chaos the finger and enjoy what you've got. The best thing that's ever happened to you. The woman you think is beautiful and incredible who gives you amazing blow jobs. You get over it, or at least take productive steps to do so, and you celebrate the wonderful things you have. You don't work your own personal feedback loop until you're brittle and wild-eyed.

Unless, of course, with your fascination with ruin and with death, and your admitted interest in craving drama, you wish to make things worse for yourself so you can spout out bullshit like, "Oh, there's that familiar feeling; the feeling of hurting people." And you can avoid eye contact because it just "makes it harder". You can let chaos win and revel in the misery of it all. Maybe you'll get a song out of it, this paralyzing emotional intensity you're feeling that you want to "calm down" by breaking up with ME.

And that's something close to the conclusion I've come to, after crying myself dry today (lying in a puddle of tears, wet tear slicked neck, while watching All That Jazz is a bit surreal). He responded to one of my frantic texts, on the general topic of WTF, ANDY, and he told me, knowing he could offer no solace, to "take care of [my] beautiful self" and I responded that taking care of myself means loving him.

I wish in all of this I weren't feeling that he's coming off as total emo douchebag. I know how beautiful he is, how strong, how elegant and magickal. Where did that Andy go?

Wherever he is, I want to wring his god damn drama queen neck.