Note the new diaryring addition. I feel kind of dirty for joining. Karl, honey, I think you need to join, too.

After accusing Bridget of reading my diary in yesterday's entry, I've become even more paranoid. I see her twice in the halls everyday, but usually don't say anything. But she said hi to me both times today. I, of course, percieve that as being significant, although it probably isn't. But I'm convinced that she's onto me. She knows all my thoughts.

Seriously, Bridget. If you're reading this, just tell me. Right now is a really convenient time for me to want to beat myself into oblivion. By next week, I'd be over it and we could both move on. For the sake of my sanity, just tell me. Don't worry. I'm really harmless.

But you may want to disregard yesterday's comment about telling me that I'm pretty. Because doing so really wouldn't be enough. Apparently my obsession was just taking a coffee break, but it's back on board and running like mad.

C'mon. Lets cuddle. You know you really want to.

No more about Bridget tonight. I'm starting to sound creepy again.

So, if Cedar has said 'fuck it' to her diary, does that mean that she's going to stop reading all of ours? Because . . .

Okay. Enough bullshit. I wasn't pissed off at first, but now I am. She doesn't even say hi to me in the hall anymore. She just gives me one of her half grins that just makes me think 'fuck you.' If you want to run around with Ariel and frolick in your optimism, just fucking great. I'm not trying to bring you down. But I don't see how being 'happy' means dropping my ass like I never happened. Because I sure as hell happened to you, just like you sure as hell happened to me and you still mean a lot to me, just like you always have. I'm not asking for your full attention, your full devotion, just a little acknowledgement.

Sorry I wasn't peppy enough for you. Sorry I'm a moaner. Sorry I'm not 'happy.'

And I think your 'happy' is not really happiness, but comfort in the absence of unpleasant emotion. Just bury it in the backyard and let it rot. Fine, it's yours. Do what you want to with it. I choose to own mine. It doesn't mean that you're happy and I'm not. Is that how little you know about me?

Don't think that I can blow you off like some idiot I run into in the hall. The list of people that I don't give a fuck about is huge, but you're sure as hell not on it and you're never going to be. Don't assume that you can't hurt me.

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