Tonight's Seinfeld was where George was complaining about dating a coworker, when they used to just be friends.

"Now, every day is a date."

That's only if things are going good. When you break up, every day is drama class where you act like all things are good and smiles on the inside. If you don't, people will ask, "What's wrong?" when they don't care, they're just nosey. You keep your office door closed because you don't want to hear him talking to other coworkers -- especially the ones who you hate. He'd do this, too, just to hurt you (he's told you so). You benefit greatly from bringing in your lunch everyday instead of buying it at the downstairs cafeteria; no longer will you have to run into him at the salad bar. Or worse, see him totally not seeing you. You can't help but look in the lot to see if his Passat is parked where it usually is because you're stupidly comforted by knowing he's somewhere in the building, even though you know you'll never speak again.

I didn't know that he thought I was "unstable" and "a little psycho" for wanting to be included more in his life... like being invited once in a while to hang with him when he's with his friends. No NOT all the time, really, just once in... maybe a month. I even asked him if he'd ever want to hang out with me and mine.

"I have no fucking desire to do so. I like to keep my things separate. And I don't care who your friends are. I don't want you around, and my friends don't want you around, either."

[Please, don't mix words--how do you really feel about this?]

I have no family in this state. I don't have a lot of friends, but Ritchie is one. Unfortunately, when he and I fight, they sort of keep away from me. Yet I still value them. Value them, and fear that secretly they don't really like me--just as I have with all my friends throughout grade school, high school, and college. Anthony knows of my anxiety and took a quick cheap shot, saying "Your friends don't really like you."

[Ah, thank you. Please, punch my bruise again, would you? I insist.]

But tenderheart, if we did something else other than eat-sleep-fuck, maybe I wouldn't ask to hang with your friends. You're never at a lack of energy for fun stuff with them, like playing pool or going out to a bar. I, on the other hand, am supposed to be happy with watching TV naked and rubbing your rank feet as you fall alseep. What did we do for New Year's Eve? Nothing. We were in bed by 10:30.

This fight sliced me up. I've seen how you tenderize a piece of London broil: take two forks and speedily go Norman Bates all over every inch. By the time you're done, it's punctured so much it looks like a fleshy seive.

I couldn't be so lucky.

So, stupidly, we tried once again. Like stitching up a rotten wound with piano wire and a bent nail. We went for drinks and dinner at TGIF, and it got back to your buddy. And you decide to relay the story to me over the phone the next day. (Even though I haven't yet bounced back from some of the previous comments you made, which did make me cry.)

"Glen goes, 'I heard you were hanging out with her again,' and I go, 'Yeah? So? Buddy. It's none of your fucking business.' And he goes, 'I don't care what you do with that gook.'"

[Really. This is the same friend of yours who I thought was a decent guy, and I even invited him to stay and hang out with us for filet mignon I brought over. Hey, that's great.]

In a flicker, I remembered Bobbi Wernau and Emily Pearce -- my 2 friends in 6th grade -- laughing at me as they flipped through my secret diary. "He fucking said that?" I'm shocked, and hurt. "Tell him to fuck off."

"What, you in love with Glen?" Anthony snidely asks. He's mad at me because for some reason, I seem to have a hard time digesting Glen's comment.

[Why must you be a fucking dripping douche nozzle, sometimes?]

"No, Anthony. I just can't believe he said that. ... FUCK HIM."

Trying to cover it up / make me feel better [yeah right, like that would even be a concern of his], Anthony says "Well, those might not have been his exact words."

*blink*

THEN THEY ARE YOURS, DICKHEAD, *YOU* ARE THE ONE TELLING THE GODDAMN STORY, UNCLE REMUS. IF THEY AREN'T GLEN'S THEN THEY'RE YOURS

So, I'm gone. And I'd be pretty stupid to think you care, but I'm even worse for wishing you did.