It was 6pm, and I was still mumbling rhetorically to myself 'I'm going to find you, you bastard!' It was a bad day, another bad day and i was still trying to find my ex's home address online in the UK so i could call up a few bulky male friends n send them over to his home to hustle him up. It was so hard getting over this asshole who had broken my heart three times in total in the space of 14 months- and yet i was still hooked up to him like a heroine addict. I wanted to hurt him badly but most importantly i wanted to know why he had chosen HER over me and why he had even bothered to start a relationship with me when he knew perfectly well he was secretly 'hiding' another woman. I needed CLOSURE.
I wonder if i'll ever get closure. Probably never, but i'll continue to obsess about it for awhile.
I wrote a novel almost a year ago. It's sitting in a brown paper envelope, almost 200 pages long, getting lost among the other brown envelopes containing bill receipts and other miscellaneous stuff. I pick it up once in awhile and think about publishers, but i'm afraid. Afraid that i've written the same sob-story that every young woman in her early twenties is writing about. Afraid i'll be boring and ordinary and not a sensation.