The tragedy continues

"We know of an ancient radiation
That haunts dismembered constellations
A faintly glimmering radio station"

[I would just like to note that it is April twenty-ninth in the year two thousand and eight and I am still the hugest tool ever. Stay tuned for ACT II of this ridiculous drawn-out charade, and many more to follow.]

He asks my thoughts (thoughts, mind you, not feelings) on a provoking article, and I stay up late reading Betty Friedan's Feminine Mystique. The next day, I write down two single-spaced pages worth of contemplations on feminism. My heart is racing and my brain is on fire. I feel strangely stimulated and connected. It's not a big deal to anyone else except me.

All this excitement though is just an illusion, as always. Afterall, I get no congratulations, no hint of missing the good times or curiousity about that which is me. All of me--my opinions, anxieties, joys, desires, reflections. I get no gentle vulnerabilities that friends share. Our relationship remains objective, and my forehead is starting to hurt from this thick stoic wall.

And worst of all? I keep falling for this emotional unavailability and setting myself up for heart-wreckage. Will I really never stop?

Cake says it better:

"To me,
Coming from you,
Friend is a four letter word

End is the only part of the word
That I heard,
Call me morbid or absurd,
But

To me,
Coming from you,
Friend is a four letter word"