26 october
I haven't talked to anyone besides my team (really just Ainsley and O'Hare, bit of Stanton), my mum and Matt in four days. And Jamie but he doesn't count, because he can't talk back.
This is always when Tori would tell me it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
Saying it out loud doesn't work either.
She's a kid but she never seems to hurt. I've only seen her ever look upset once or twice and it's usually reasonable shite. She doesn't have drama because she doesn't care. Nothing matters to her. Why can't I do that?
There are so many lies to keep straight. Trying to remember what I've been saying to who and why. What I've said out loud and what I haven't. Who knows.
It's stupid and it doesn't matter but it does. If it didn't matter I could say it, but it does and I can't. I probably shouldn't have had Jamie. I should have lied to Tim, maybe, or said yes to Dewi, or whatever, but this isn't working.
I hate that I hav had have all these friends and my family and everything and I can't tell them anything because I let a rich pureblood take me on a date and shag me because I fucking hate myself and dates are one of the only times I'm fine.
I don't know why Herman's stayed with me. I don't know if he's waiting for me to leave like I'm waiting for him to leave and that's a bleeding stupid way to go about things but that's the way things work around me. Bloody fucking stupid life with Tess Summers.
This was a bad idea. I love Jamie. But this was a bad idea. I thought this would change me but it hasn't. I'm still me, except now I have this kid that I love more than anything in the world who needs me to take care of him and I still hate myself. I hate myself.
I'm a good Beater. I'm a good mother. And I'm a good fuck.
But every couple of weeks I waste a lot of ink writing letters I'll never send and into this journal so people can smalltalk at me and not say anything
I remember when Dewi told me he was never going to get better. He was really drunk (he always was back then though) and he had a dozen roses, or at least there used to be, they weren't for me, he didn't say who they were for. And he showed up at my flat, drunk, with the roses, and told me that he would never get better and asked me if I would forgive him if he killed himself.
Look at him now. It only took three years. It might be wrong but I miss him being like that. At least I knew it wasn't just me. It was always him and me.
He loved her and she's dead. Kenny's alive and so is Jared, and every other bloke I ink
Maybe it's time for another tattoo. Maybe then I can move on. Document it. Move on.
It doesn't matter. It's just ink on the page. History.
Suppose I could write something.
Going to get new ink tonight.