Seventeen Gegužės of Twenty Eleven

It's wrong for me to get the computer wet. My dad stresses so much about it. So, it's especially wrong for me to sit in front of the computer and cry.

And go to school and cry.

And come home and cry.

But, I'm okay.

Or, at least, that's what I tell them. Even though they're incompetent boys, I tell them I'm okay. (One of them even said they'd tell him, and I said, "Good luck getting him to care.") Maybe I'll be okay.

But I can't even eat.

How am I supposed to be online when I can't see the screen?

And how another days goes by where the reason I cried just a day before is different?

Now, I'm stupid, incompetent, an immature baby, a twit.

Not a word since; nothing's happened. But it's like a bad habit to log into facebook and see if he broke up with me. (He hasn't yet).

The most frustrating part is that I don't know why I'm so upset. Couples get into fights all the time. They scream, it each other, and throw plates-but they cry tears of fury, not pain.

Not anguish. I cry like I lost a child. What's wrong with me?

Maybe it's that everything reminds me of him. The way I can take compliments, Portal, the computer, anything to do with my friends, games, even my web browser. I come to school and look down at my desk and have to take everything just one breath at a time.

If I don't, who knows if I'll make it.

'in and out,

the breaths I don't want to take

in blue bath water.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

Fate is inescapable,

mysterious.

Forgiveness is not what I plead,

but apology.'

Afterthought(s):

I figured it out:

• This is my sixty-ninth blog. (Thought it would have been a bit cheerier.)