I don't know if it's watching too much of Grey's Anatomy or House, but the thing is ... I think something's wrong with me. It's all I think about. And the funny thing is, I can't even talk about it. Well, not entirely true. Made a desperate phone call to a friend and got sympathy and amusement. At least that diminished the desperation to a mediumly bearable non-exploding amount.
Sent message to the Crow. He responded with a phone call that I never answered. I know I'm going to kick myself for not answering ... but I'm sticking to my stubborness and my naivete ... that the right guy will come. Letter to self when I reach 40: I TOLD YOU SO!!!!!
If you had a choice, would you rather be angelically good? Or would you rather be shallowly happy?
Kill me now.