I know that one of my last posts was slightly emo.

Then I realized, my emo is not even the tip of the iceberg.

Here is my proof.

I'm back!

The fit of emo is over. Spare me the lecture. It's a part of the 'moving on' process. Some people get shitty drunk and sleep around, I write blog posts.
Well, I get shitty drunk and sleep around too but I'm actively trying to deal with my emotions in a more healthy, adult manner.

As it were, I decided I do need to write more. Perhaps, in the form of a book.
And it's looking more and more like it could happen.

The problem being...

I have nothing to say. Not a damn thing. I have writers block the size of the taj mahal.
Which is not a great start, if you ask me.

As soon as I can afford a new desk, so I have some space solely for writing, I fully plan on cranking out a lot of work. (My last desk didn't survive the move, which would be unfortunate had it not been a hunk of shit). It's hard to be a creative genius (or a creative anything) when your work space is also your dining room table, and because its a gorgeous wood you refuse to set up your 2 computers and printer on it. My work spaces eventually look like a tornado consisting of diet coke cans, post it notes and take out containers hit it, and I'd rather not defile my favorite peice of furniture in that manner.


That and currently I am right next to my front door. Meaning I can hear every time my neighbors slam their door. Which is roughly every 30 seconds. They're driving me batshit crazy.
Note to readers: If your apartment number happens to be 214, pick one. IN OR FUCKING OUT.

I'm supposed to be tossing out ideas for a title of a book, and I've got nothing. Any suggestions?

I am a firm believer that everyone has that one relationship.
The one person that you fell head over heels insanely in love with.
The one that you still miss the way that they smell. The way they look in the morning.
You know, the one who fucked you up irreparably for the rest of your life.

The one that used to be your best friend but ruined it when they ripped the last actual feeling you ever had out. No matter how hard you try you can't seem to get that back.

I've been trying to maintain a friendship with mine. And I'm starting to see now what everyone else has been telling me all along. It's impossible to stay friends with the person who broke your heart. Because eventually they call you all fucked up about someone else, and you can't help but remember when that was you they gave a shit about. And somehow, it becomes impossible to figure out why you're the one they go back to consistently.

Even worse, the day you realize you're on the back burner is usually the day the person decides to tell you they love you again. Nothing says love like giving you just enough rope to hang yourself with.

The worst part is, it's not that you don't get it. You understand that it's just a game. They know what they're doing. You cycle between wanting them to scratch your head and snuggle you to sleep and wanting to rip the head off of their adored stuffed bear with the bowtie from childhood and stuff it in their mailbox.

Your friends are right, you do deserve better. But for whatever reason you can't find someone that makes you feel the way they did. And for that split second when they tell you they love you, just for a second, you're the only person in the entire world.

Some people drown it in drugs. Others drink. Some of us sit up at one in the morning and write emo posts on our blogs and wonder what we did to deserve being an afterthought. We sit up and write word after word after fucking word and hope that the answer pops out at us, when we really know it all along.

How do you break off a friendship you worked so hard for? You know that's the right answer, but somehow you just can't. Because whether you admit it or not, the rare times you hear from them, you still get that little flutter. You get a little bit of satisfaction when they get a little bit jealous.

Write about it. Write write write write write people can relate to it. Then the realization.
I can't write without him around.

I keep telling myself to break it off. For real. For good.
Rip the stitches. Grow a set. Whatever you want to call it.

And every time, without fail, he will tell me something that reminds me why I kept him around in the first place.

So it looks like I'm stuck writing emo blog posts, and wishing he thought of me once or twice. And wishing he wouldn't tell me he loves me anymore.

Wow. This blog actually has over 333 posts on it.

Which means that I definately don't update enough. But whatever. I'm tired.

Family stuff is a little bit crazy right now, and that's never a good time for anyone. It's been awhile since I was afraid to look at my bank account...and it looks like it's going to be one of those months. Things have been going pretty well, too. My traffic is through the roof, my new job is going well, but making ends meet is hard.

And my neighbors aren't helping.

It's not that they're rude. They aren't. They're actually quite nice. Very friendly people, with a 5 year old kid.

None of the running around bothers me, really. Kids are kids, they live above me, it's apartment life. Shit, even them getting busy in the middle of the night doesn't bug me. Yes, they are bigger people, and it's quite loud, but everyone needs some every now and then and who am I to judge? It's not like it's marathon sex.

So why am I tired?

Because they are above me, and their sweet darling little kid will play in the grass outside the apartment, that's fine.

He really is a cute little guy.

Who, whenever I am trying to sleep (Which is not often anymore) will decide that he doesn't want to walk up to the 3rd floor to talk to his parents, and will instead screech at the top of his little lungs. They will then open the balcony door and yell down at him.

For extended conversations.

In Spanish.

It is driving me batshit crazy. Seriously. Nothing is that important, and make that little fucker walk up to the apartment, he needs the exercise.

Once, I even got ballsy enough to ask him to not yell. He said, and I quote "No".

Never in my life have I been so tempted to throw something at a five year old.

There is nothing I can do to shut the little fucker up.

I suppose sleep is overrated anyway.

Clare: 0 Little Mexican 5 Year Old:1