8:31 a.m. - October 22, 2003
Spec sent me flowers this morning. Card reads, "Hey babe . . . Please talk to me? Your [insert my pet name for him]." Am I pathetic and a sucker because I reached for the phone? It's not that I'm huffy-puffy-pouty mad-for-attention or flowers or some other silly gesture of reconciliation that guys seem to carry in the bloodstream; it's that I'm angry about the weekend and I haven't completed beating myself up yet. Oh, that's right, that's his job. How could I forget. And right this minute I'm feeling that anger swell - I mean come on, flowers? I'm not some girl who bats her eyelashes and swoons because some stud says hey babe and out the window goes common sense. Why do I even get worked up over this? Is it the flowers that bug me, my reaction, him?
This is the perniciousness of the situation; I want, I don't want. I want, I don't want, I want, I don't want. There are no more daisies left in the backyard to pluck so where does that leave me now?
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