Monday, 23 July 2001

She's ditched me again. That's the third time this year.



Got a phone call last night as I folded my clothes for a week away (my flat is little more than a clean clothing production line with Sky). In tears she explained that she didn't want 'us' to continue because after 9 months she still wasn't sure, but that she didn't want to lose me as her closest friend. I listened in a cold silence as a spiralling pit yawned in my stomach, told her I'd been expecting it, hung up and went out and got drunk.



I woke at 4am, and while my blurry head adjusted to the half-light of my room, the chasm reopened and I fell in, my stomach whirling and churning. It wasn't pretty. But after an hour my thoughts crystallised into one conclusion - I wasn't going to accept her answer. As a conclusion unfortunately, it doesn't help, making me sound like a petulant toddler, screaming and screaming until I'm sick. Also it probably ultimately leads to a seedy experience living at the bottom of her garden and picking up court orders.



The second conclusion I reached, once two cups of tea to the good and ensconsed in a Nottingham bound First Class compartment, was that I'm beyond caring. Although spectacularly at odds with previous behaviour, it's sustaining me at the moment.



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