In the end I eventually managed to re-right the fragile little paper sail boat of my emotions; pitiful paraffin origami yacht that it was, so very easily, so amazing easy to capsize, and thus I come now to some vague equilibrium, a truce of sorts with myself, bobbing up and down in the water, nearly turning wrongways; but not, but almost—flipping over but somehow stayin upright.

My problem is I still love my ex, and to be honest it fucks me up at times. I still cry over it, like a pussy, on occasion. Yeah. Kinda stupid. Believe me, I've tried everything, from heartfelt sex to meaningless attempts at interpersonal connection. A dumb romantic fool, in impossible love, the worst, the most hopeless case in the dictionary. Actually, you know, I believe that if I was a horse they'd shoot me. It takes a certain unrepentant obstenence, a wilful unruly unwillingness to recognize the brute facts of reality to be able to stay in love with someone that doesn't love you back that same way, but I guess that's how my parents raised me. “Don't be a quitter!”—that's what Dad said! and every single time I've tried to give up smoking his words rise from the tomb of my memory like a ghostly accusation.

You know; I can turn on the charm when I choose to. Make people like me. Be! gregarious, magnanimous, apparently heartfelt. At end of it I still feel like I was just oil on ice, like I just... slid past without touching.