3

11/10/08
9/17/08
Honesty

There were seven things I wanted to tell you; one of them was significant. And now I can't tell you even the stupid stuff, like how you needed a haircut and that NO3- was always soluble in water and that was why you got that problem wrong on the Chemistry test.

I didn't forget to bring your birthday present; I didn't buy it on time. Your leather jacket was at the dry cleaner, and you left your hat at my house--I kept forgetting to tell you. I didn't enjoy that movie because I hate hate hate Jet Li.

And I told you that motorcycle was a bad idea. What annoys me the most is that it's almost cliched, how it all happened. And I don't give a damn about what everyone else is saying, about how you've "gone to a better place" and all of that. I'm pissed off. You can't even begin to understand how pissed off I am. Even if you were around, you wouldn't be able to comprehend the magnitude of my irritation.



I'm so mad. And everyone keeps tiptoeing around me like I'm some stupid glass figurine that can break with the slightest tremor. Even my hard-core Physics teacher is cutting me a break. I don't want anyone to cut me breaks. But I know I'll seem callous if I tell everyone how I really feel.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not even really that sad. I'm not. But your mom keeps calling me, looking for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. I feel bad for her, I really do. I wish she would stop calling me, though.

Because that's what everyone expects: for me to never move on, for me to be sad forever, to be mopey and weepy and held back by the past, just because I was the girlfriend.

What they never knew (significant thing number one) was that I was breaking up with you on Monday, anyway.