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3/12/2006
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it's been very the same still.
Nothing
ever changed when we were together. I was still looking for the damned
perfect time just to talk, and it really, really sucks. I can't feel
any more comfortable, and I can't speak my mind... I've always wanted
to be perfect when he's around. I never wanted to look stupid when he's
there. I don't want to suck in front of him. All I wanted to do was to
put an image of me as a perfect person, the way I assume he wanted a
bestfriend to be. And all i wanted to be was to be ME.
He never told me anything like being perfect when he's around. It's my
heck of a mind who wanted to assume so many stuff that were so much
friggin'ly wrong. I...I just can't feel myself when I'm with him. I
kept on worrying that I maybe boring his life away when he's with
me. It's like, I still had to draw a plan, a schedule, whatever, just
to organize such a conversation which I am assured he'll enjoy. I just
feel like...I wanted to do almost anything just to make him happy. Even
if it means like giving up everything...even myself.
He didn't want that, I didn't want that, either...but I can't help
feeling like it. He's always surrounded by so many people, and he's
freakingly popular with almost every breathing person so I guess being
perfect slapped on my mind just to snap him out of it and tell him,
" WOULD IT HURT IF YOU SPEND A LITTLE TIME WITH ME?!"
I only wanted to ask, that is...
WOULD IT?!
Anyway, that's the news. Nuthin' changed. It'll stay on like this till
my consciousness runs out suddenly and I would never be aware of
it. He'll never want to remember my company when I'm away. He wouldn't
care any less when I'm gone. It's just as simple as that.
Or maybe I still do like him.
Why should I care anyhow?
Why should I feel hurt when I don't if it concerns other people?
Why should I want to be perfect when he's around?
Why am I so conscious when he's with me?
WHY DO I EVEN TRY CARING!?
...
All I wanted was to be perfect in front of the guy I really like.
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About Me
A diary in which it can still be called , though my pages have turned to be a little too different. My life. My pensive moods. My drabbles. My self.
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