move along, nothing to see here.

Last night I wrote him a letter I had no intention of sending, mostly because it snarkily outlined his less appealing points. I have a copy on my computer, where it will invariably remain despite having briefly considered posting it anonymously on Craigslist. I, if only for a mili-second, considered posting it not so anonymously here too. That would have been beyond the Pale. Also tacky and classless. I'm trying to avoid both with actively decreasing efficiency. Part of me wants to cop to every accusation and hurt feeling. To take responsibility for all of it and apologize again for all my shortcomings. The other part, when thinking about the last two or so years and especially this last month, wants to run screaming from all of it. The only problem is that I have a decent job, just got accepted to grad school and don't quite know how Bagel would fare on the lam. She does not like to walk for long periods of time and I'm get tired carrying her. I couldn't very well leave her behind though. I suppose I'm stuck.

What's difficult in all of this is how little I can actually say. I told Nicole a lot this weekend while she was in town. The problem is that she isn't in town anymore and I've only really started talking about it beyond vagaries--we grew apart, we just want different things out of life--it's hopeless bullshit and does not begin to get at the point of the thing. The only problem, and it's a rather large problem, is that the way I tell the point of the thing does not put him in the most attractive light. It's downright ugly. It's also ultimately an inaccurate picture because even though I'm the one who did the ending, it's still hurts a lot. It had hurt before and it still does. One of our mutual friends equated the way Walt feels right now to having just had an incredibly large band-aid ripped off. It makes sense, he never really saw this coming... except that that band-aid had been there for a while now and it was starting to gather fuzzy bits on all sides. Maybe he really did not see the bluish outline form around the bandage, but it had been discussed. As much as I want to believe his absolute ignorance when it came to the fuzzier bits, it hurts just the same to think maybe (and contrary to all his recent rantings) he just didn't care enough to to at least spruce it up with a new band-aid, maybe a a little rubbing alcohol, some Neosporin. Stupid is easier to forgive.

I wish I could actually explain this to my friends (the two or three I see in person on a semi-regular basis), gory details included. But they're all his friends too. Actually, they're his friends first. I wish I could talk to them, explain everything and have them tell me I did the right thing and deserve much better than I'd been handed. But I can't and they wouldn't. Even if they did sit through the tirade I've choreographed in my head, I'm not entirely sure they think I did remotely the right thing. I don't blame them for that. It makes a lot of sense. I just can't talk to them. We went out on Sunday afternoon and I had to buy boots afterwards to cheer myself up. It was nothing they did or said but there is a palpable distance and it's sad and I don't need one more reason to sit in my room and be sad.

Before I met him, I spent most every night at home. I'd run out of homework and rent DVDs from the library. Early on in our relationship, he told me he felt bad because we always hung out with his friends and that he'd like to meet some of mine. I didn't know how to tell me that I didn't really have any and that I only went out when my roommate let me tag along to whatever party she' was going to. He'd already met my roommate. Now, I can't get over how it's his friends (really, thats what they've always been) I'd have to explain all of these gory details to. I can't do that. It goes back to the tacky, classless thing. I've already let too much slip around them. I shouldn't; it isn't fair. I get mean and petty when I'm mad and hurt. Even saying this here, knowing full well they can and have already found this, seems hideously passive-aggressive. But I don't have a paper diary. I've never been able to keep one going. I'm sorry about that, the passive-aggressive part that is. I don't mean to be and can only hope this will get ignored. I just had to get out some snippet of something. I've kept it in too long, it's giving me stomachaches and acne.

I had been keeping a list of things about the relationship, things that marked our ultimate undoing. I had hoped it would be cathartic but mostly it just felt pathetic. I've re-read the list and I don't hate him so much (although, I can't help but hate him a little...it will pass, probably quickly) as I hate myself for letting it all happen.

On Saturday night, for a few minutes at least, all they wanted to do was take my picture. I hid to the best of my ability because my skin is worse than it's been in years and I really don't want evidence of that floating around when this is all over. It's hopelessly vain but when you feel like shit you really don't also need to be reminded how closely you resemble it. I should have stayed home. I have the special edition of Hamlet. An evening with a melancholy Dane would have put things in perspective, I think.