Oh, What A Wonder It Is To Be A Nostalgic Doormat

I don't know why I allow her to do this to me, or why I refuse to listen to that voice in my head. The one that reminds me of her past deeds, the one that remembers and never forgets. The one I always promise I will listen to next time the opportunity presents itself.

The one I continue to ignore regardless.

She's known me for a long time. I guess that means she knows what makes me tick--the things that bother me, my reactions to certain things. Despite her perceivable oblivious state, I know she is aware of what she's doing on some level and what it is in turn doing to me.

She's so manipulative, always trying to butter me up with fake smiles and even faker claims of comraderie. I see what she's doing, I always see it.

Why do I let her do it, though?

All she does is use me.

She said she was sorry. She knew I was irritated.

I was glad for the sunglasses because often when I'm really angry, the tears come. They did well, but fortunately, did not fall.

So yeah. She said she was sorry. I said, "Well clearly you're not sorry enough."

If she truly felt bad, she wouldn't have asked. If she cared about my feelings at all, she wouldn't have put me through that.

We've known each other for years. She's been my oldest friend, but honestly, I think it's about time our friendship ended.

I keep bothering to hang out with her because I keep entertaining my feelings of nostalgia. This seems to be a huge issue for me--living in the past. She isn't the only friend I continue bothering with just because I can remember the good times.

Well you know what? Fuck you. Fuck you all.

Because you don't care about me and I sure as hell shouldn't care about you.