There's nothing interesting about me, except the fact that I really should stop switching blogs.

Another pretentious way of saying "Bitch, please."

I'm scared shitless.

The past weekend saw me pretty drugged up, attempting to bask in the legions of gay boys and Mariah Carey, and then failing pretty miserably anyway. The meds are fucking me up in the worst possible way, one which starts with the letter Z.

The flashbacks are getting more surreal each time it happens, the lapses tightening it's shift. I don't know what this is supposed to mean, to be remembering all the little snippets of our relationship in such vivid details it might as well have been technicolored. The memories are more haunting than they are bittersweet, and I have no intention of taking a stroll down memory lane. In fact, it's more like a go-cart race with faulty brakes and a penchant for speed down memory lane.

I don't know how to make it stop, or go away for that matter. I want it to, so badly, and I don't know how. The helpless itch is killing me, and my subconscious seems to dives right back without even giving me time to catch my breath. I need help, but I don't know that either.

I thought being in love was all about never truly knowing, but since when did that become a prerequisite for a broken heart?
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