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She is wearing one of the t-shirts he rejected - the red one
Her body is getting fatter, and she gives no fucks. The beer helps her not think about everything she lost. She wonders if she should drip the faucets tonight or say a quick fuck-it. She hasn't been in the room she made love to him last (is that what you call it) in days. She's going to have to wash the sheets soon because her aunt and mother are coming next week to "cheer her up."
She wishes she were rich enough to give them a room at the hotel 45 and be done with it all. Hosting sucked. She was happy not to have to host him anymore - not to have to go out and buy all the treats he never ate and to get the liquor and the beer he drank one of.
She wondered if he wore any of the t-shirts she gave to him. anymore.
nevermore.
what did any of it mean. This post was useless. the only function of it was to perhaps expend these whirling thoughts in her head enough to allow her to go to bed reading the Kurt Vonnegut biography. It turned out that Kurt liked fucking with adoring ladies as well. What a
human.
Tomorrow was most likely going to come.
She was most likely going to dream dreams again. She might remember them. She might not.
She was so low that when the short fat professor texted her "can't wait to see you Thursday" and then immediately wrote back "that wasn't meant for you".
It kind of devastated narcissi.
as was her due.
She walked around the Victoria lap again today wondering if maybe it was true. Maybe she was boring and not someone that enlivened parties anymore. Maybe that smile that was on her face in Wilmington could be wiped off
succinctly.
She didn't know shit - that was for sure, but she knew he was at the gym today. She imagined he had skipped walking. She thought he was going to watch jeapordy and then go to the hi-lo to see a bit of the game and head back home at half time.
She loved him like breathing, and it of course wrecked her own health.
she was going to no gyms.
she was proud of herself for washing the dishes.
one tried.
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