From now on, this will be a friend's only journal. I really hate having to do this because I don't like hiding who I am but shit happens. Besides, it was crazy of me to think shit wouldn't eventually hit the fan. Silly me
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I don't know who this is but in the big scheme of things, it doesn't really matter. I am loved but it is not by you (assuming you are someone I thought was a friend). There are only two people in this world I need to love me. My mom (who's the only one who really understands this whole situation and who thankfully does love me), and God who I hope to be with soon.
stop begging for pity--you don't need it and won't get it from anyone who truly cares for you...pick yourself up and brush off those specs--you won't get any pity from me.
--Kyle--I don't have a livejournal account so I didn't know what to put as a "name"
seems like you're ready to wash your hands of us; why do you expect us to let you? (are we really that distant?) But, I guess it doesn't really matter what anyone says or does though, so feel free to ignore this: a friendship broken by this was never a mutual or worthwhile one, and that hurts--meanwhile i stuck through sophomore year. You remember that day at the lunch table--"I packaged it up and was going to give it to him"--you know, the torn painting--that little inside/mistakenly outside joke; my head buried into my arm in mock-sleep. Even that didn't seem worth the loss, as I looked the other way.
This seems to be a cyclical relationship, and I'm the only one who sees the benefits.
You know I'm really having a hard time understanding this comment WHEN YOU DON'T EVEN TELL ME WHO'S WRITING IT. So screw your comment. I have no use for it
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add me? <3
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seems like you're ready to wash your hands of us; why do you expect us to let you? (are we really that distant?) But, I guess it doesn't really matter what anyone says or does though, so feel free to ignore this: a friendship broken by this was never a mutual or worthwhile one, and that hurts--meanwhile i stuck through sophomore year. You remember that day at the lunch table--"I packaged it up and was going to give it to him"--you know, the torn painting--that little inside/mistakenly outside joke; my head buried into my arm in mock-sleep. Even that didn't seem worth the loss, as I looked the other way.
This seems to be a cyclical relationship, and I'm the only one who sees the benefits.
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