Feeling: wrong
Listening to: Sarah Vaughan - "Send in the Clowns"
Reading/Watching: .

I... am having difficulty saying this. Because I cannot forgive myself for it.

Friday night, I was talking with an old friend, because it was late, I was wired, and we were both up. I went to his room, and we sat on his bed, sharing a throw blanket, talking exhaustively about everything on earth, in the comfortable way we have. It's what I love him for.

Sometimes, I confuse comfort with love. It's a horrible habit- it gets me into trouble time and time again. Because I know that love is a sense of certainty, a knowing that you want to be with this person, that they want to be with you, that you are safe with them because they have your heart but won't take advantage of that. But it's only part of it. It's how I blur the lines, because I don't know the difference between good friendship and that which I have never experienced.

And I so badly want to be loved. Sometimes it's a distant thing that I think I can do without, something I shrug off as I contemplate a lifetime of my own home, my own car, my own computer, my own everything. Sole possession of the remote-control, TV dinner for one, never having to put up with someone's crabby moods, lots of fun concepts when you don't truly think it'll happen. As time passes, a ghost of fear taps at the base of my spine, crawling up and pressing knobby elbows into my ribs, whispering, "This could be your future."

It terrifies me. It's like a cancer, so hard to recognize, but it's been festering all along, and at times it will rear its head in desperation, and drive me to something stupid. Something really, really stupid.

I actually tried to edit this story to a PG-version for my LJ, pretend it was less than it was, like a casual "ha-ha, crazy college shenanigans" instead of the frightened desperation to find one person on this earth who would spend time thinking of me as something other than a nun or a blood relative.

He didn't approach me first. I hinted. I said (in the air of nonchalance, acting the role of some TV model who's sick with beauty and wants a good hard fuck instead) "I don't even want romance... right now, what I could use is someone I'm comfortable with, someone I'm attracted to, who's attracted to me, who's willing to make out from time to time, nothing emotional about it, just kissing and maybe a little more..."

And no, the boy is not a complete and total idiot. He picked up on the clues. What male, when confronted with such an opportunity, wouldn't take it? Especially when most girls have too much pride to offer it.

But not me. Oh, no. Not me. And he pulled me closer, and we began.

I kept trying harder, trying to be comfortable, trying to be happy, trying to lose myself in it and pretend I hadn't practically begged him, pretend he really wanted me, and not the nearest warm body.

It makes my stomach churn to remember. I want to cry. I want to hide. I want to take it back, because it was so stupid. I never wanted to be desperate, rock-bottom like this, offering myself up like so much chattel for the courtesy of a smile, for the compliment of a kiss and the empty affirmation in physical desire. The one thing I am grateful for is that I realized it wasn't working before it was too late. After trying, and failing, to forget, unable to escape my own thoughts, I called it off with an excuse, saying it was late (nearly 5 a.m.), and I should go.

I walked out the door, still adjusting my clothing back into place, my bra fastened wrong, hair a mess, dazed at my baseness. I could hardly contemplate myself, the desperate girl who'd mess around with a close friend who turned out to be a horrible kisser just for the emptiness of knowing she could. Congratulations, you can turn him on. Big fucking accomplishment, your entire person now ranks even with the nearest lingerie magazine.

Integrity doesn't sell for much these days. Nor does self-respect.

I hate that you're reading this. I hate that you'll read this and think less of me, realize I am not who you thought I was. I hate that you'll be right.

But I cannot, in good conscience, keep this inside. It's eating away at me, even though it might seem small to some. It's not like I slept with him. It's not like I asked for fake words of love. I just have to get this out of me. This diary has become like a confessional of sorts, and I can only comfort myself with the knowledge that if you read this and can't forgive me, then perhaps you're not the friend I thought you were. Please forgive me.

God knows I can't quite forgive myself.

And he can't look me in the eyes anymore. God. What I've ruined.

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