So I’m sitting at a fucking bar, in fucking Craighall Park, in a fucking dingy dark corner, with a gathering of fucking dirty old men, a fucking thousand people smoking cigarette in my fucking face and I’m fucking thinking, “Fuck everything. Give me a fucking gin and tonic.”
It’s yesterday fucking five o’ fucking clock and I’m on my , you guessed it – fucking – own.
Luckily my friends join me later. Much around the time Small Bum first smses me to ask how I am doing. (Just fucking peachy thanks.)
I suppose some form of communication is gratiyfing. From the are-we-aren’t-we boyfriend by the name of Small Bum.
He wants to meet up so we can 'chat some more about this,' and doesn’t want it to be over BUT.. he doesn’t know where we go from here.
doesn’t know where we go from here?
I’m assuming nowhere. He’s so over this.
It's lonely conceptualising being single again. I am trefuckingmendously sad without him. I miss him terribly.
I woke up at 5:00am this morning tossing and turning.
Tonight, after our chat, at least I know where we'll be for certain.
I am so sad, I just want to wallow in bed and cry my eyes out. But instead, I'll be missioning around fucking Wadeville to find Beetle spare brake parts.