The hardest part is to realise that it's 340 in the morning, tears are streaming down your face and your heart's feeling broken and as you look at the offline status staring mockingly back at you, you realise you can't call anyone and you don't know what's wrong (whichever precedes the other) and you're shivering with cold or the chills from the emptiness and you hate yourself for feeling and being, and being over dramatic, though it feels as real as no drama could ever feel.
And then you start to actually comtemplate, and question, and hurt.
And then it's real.
99 days to go, 98 tomorrow.
I wonder how long more before i'm officially broken.
Question: Why do we convince ourselves that we need things that are available but which in actual fact, we probably don't? It's only in thinking that we do, i suppose, that we feel we do and when we don't get what we think we need, the sky comes tumbling down. That, that is the sad reality that is emotion and irrationality, and hormones and feelings and being human. Sometimes it sort of sucks, i'd say.
(But enough ranting for tonight; Goodnight, World.)