M.

When I die the obituary will read, "done in by being too damn perfect." Not boasting. That's what she said. I was too kind, too understanding, too sympathetic. Zero to being someone's primary emotional pillar in under 4 months. And if we were together, and it went awry, then to where could she turn? I can't argue with such reasoning. I'm responsible, after all. That's what I do, that's how I am.

I thought getting drunk might ease my mood--it didn't. Instead all I can think of is how much, without admitting it to myself, I had looked forward to being alone no longer. Now, I suppose, I must suffer a little more. But really, did I have a choice of what to say, morally? I make so many decisions based on the assumption that I am invincible and can recover from anything--this is, perhaps, not right.

Self-annihilation has become a moral imperative. What I hope for is to hope no more. What I long for is to long no more. It's all kind of hard to sort out right now.