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5:46 p.m. - January 23, 2003
Put me on hiatus until the Superbowl and then defrost what's left, dispose of gristle and unpalatable sections, wipe with 409
A simple formula: If he bothers you, remove opportunity for being bothered. He intrudes with a vengeance and I'm sputtering and I think Aren't I past all this? I'm at a loss to explain away this lack of control and unsettling emotions that rise up more like the Huns than the Velvet Revolution. You see how little control I actually have, don't you? When I'm thrown, I slide all the way down the shitheap.

It's a game. If he were here I know I'd give in, I'd forgive what happened before and see nothing but stars and I think he knows this. What are his motives? Is this an ego boost for him? Conjecture is both waste of time and what else - I don't know. What distinguishes reaction to over-reaction? Hyperbole not, I feel like I need to hide. It's ridiculous but my instinct is to flee, change numbers, emails, invest in Dobermans? German Shepards? I'm a little scared, I admit it, mostly hurt, thoroughly tired of this. No drama allowed, remember?

I'm not going to write about this again.


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