Just as I was about to type this, I heard Ginuwine's voice. Please forgive all the o's. However, my anxiety level is likely at an all time high right now. I got the dreaded (well, in this case joyous) "we need to talk..." text. There are several things that I know for certain won't be the topic of conversation. Things like I'm pregnant (because I'm not and I didn't even initiate this exchange). Or you gave me (insert horribly curable or incurable disease here). No one died. You would have just come out with it. Or possibly said fuck you, you'll find out on your own. So for that I am grateful. Still, it does nothing to ease this fluttering in my stomach that is traveling to my heart which is pounding so hard that it's shaking my esophagus rapidly. I had a cup of coffee and hot fries today. It's all I can stand. I just laughed a little. The thought of it being coffee and hot fries, not of the possible contents of this conversation, that has me all jittery was briefly amusing.
I wonder what you want to talk to me about? Is it that you miss me? That you realize that we can, we will? There goes the inevitability of the floating hope...
You asked me about being 100 again and I answered, 100. In the back of my mind though, I am worried that this is going to be gas burned to hear how much you hate me, how much you can't stand me and a litany of things you swear you know I did and never told you. Then we'll have sex "one last time" for literally like the 30th time, or not, and I'll leave feeling hallow. Insert the feeling of dread from the dreaded text now.
I'm not worried because I don't have any thing else that could possibly be exposed. I'm worried that I can't withstand another tirade. I'm more worried that I can. It's becoming increasingly unsettling to me that I've come to a place where by I feel I deserve these lengthy sermons that preach to me all the reasons I ain't shit. I presume self-loathing can be a normal step in the progression of change. After all, it has been the trigger for the change. I just wonder how long I can allow reconstruction and destruction to dwell in the same place before my brain implodes or my heart truly, physically brakes and I become some medical anomoly; the girl with the broken heart... no really, it's broken.
Anyway, you'll say your words this evening and I'll cry. I know I'll cry. The mystery is whether it will be tears of joy or pain. A little bit of both is the most positive outcome I could pray for.
In seach of... calm.
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