Feeling: exasperated
Listening to: Evanescence - "Even in Death"
Reading/Watching: journals. any to recommend?

You're right.

I couldn't understand what your life is like. How nightmarish it is, you say. And until I develop ESP, I will never know, because you tell no one, especially not me.

It is one of the single most frustrating things about you. When it comes to speaking nothings, sure, you're a pro. Light social patter, you've got it down. You can monopolize a room with your nothings and your *scientifically-defined-as-hazel* eyes, and it's all just fine. Just fine.

But anything that cuts too close to the quick, and you're a wounded animal, snapping just because my hand approached. I haven't even touched you yet, and you're in the corner, snarling.

I don't want to fix you. I'm not sure that's a job for any person on earth but you, and I've been told the Florence Nightingale syndrome is singularly annoying in women, so I'm not going to attempt it.

Do you ever look at it closely? Or do you cover it and let it eat at you? That's what I want to know.

You could be overdramatizing, wanting the awed silence of bystanders' mock-understanding without having to share any particular tragedy. Or you could be secretly faltering, waiting for someone to cut through the bullshit and find you.

I know better than to try, for all the times I'm sure you can't stand me, and because you know I hate when you act coy, when you poke at people's sore spots and then wait with a smile to see if they'll put up with it or leave. I've been thoroughly sick of it many times, and if not for other people linking us together, I'd have given up on you long ago, so be grateful for them.

But you claim we are friends, your actions (occasionally) speaking louder than your flippant words. And I'd like to reach that level, because being your acquaintance is too irritating to endure, and the hope of true friendship is too potentially rewarding to resist.

The irony is that you are perhaps the very last person on earth who would ever find this here. Lord knows why I'm bothering, except to sort it out for myself.

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