2004-02-15 / 12:43 a.m.

"Why can't I talk to you anymore? Everytime I speak to you you start fucking crying, it's ridiculous." This is my fault? Am I making myself cry? Am I making you make mean little comments every day? Is that my decision? Maybe it's the headache I've had every fucking day for about three goddamn weeks. Maybe it's the depression, the medical disorder you just knew you could handle. Maybe it's the 400 assholes I just had in my face all night, at work, where I was because you wanted me to be, because we need the money, because you work when you're sick and I thought that meant I should, too. Maybe because the phrase "because you're Kristyn and you're going to get in his face and tell him a bunch of shit he doesn't care about" wasn't what I was expecting when I had a bad night and wanted to be told it was ok.

My fault. It's my fault he makes me cry. Cute.

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