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Sunday, Sept. 14, 2003 - 2:45 p.m. |
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So you're online, and I see you online, and I want to talk to you, though I can't see why I'd want to. But I want to anyway.
But I won't. I can't talk to you; I don't want to seem clingy. I don't want you to know I think about you all the time, I don't want you to know that I'm dying to hear your voice or see you again. And I most especially do NOT want you to think I thought it meant anything. I mean, I knew it didn't mean anything, I didn't mean for it to mean anything, it didn't mean anything for me, I. . . I want you to think I'm doing fine, I've got plenty of other options, so many other options, in fact, that I can't spare five seconds to ask you "hey, how's it going?" Because I'm busy fending off, oh, you know, fifteen other gorgeous men who are throwing themselves at my feet, showering me with attention, and that whole bit. So here I am, sitting around, trying my damnedest to resist talking to you, especially since I KNOW there's no way in hell you'd ever talk to me. Because if I'm the one who wants to talk to you, I'll seem needy, which will probably make me even less attractive to you. No no, that won't do that all. So I'll just sit here, and never talk to you and see you around online not talking to me. I very, very, very, very rarely on extremely sparse occassions like to think that maybe you're sitting around thinking the same thing, thinking "There's Sandra online. I want to talk to her, oh, I want to talk to her, but I can't, I don't want to make it seem like I want her in any way whatsoever." But I know it's not true. And if you're not talking to me because you don't want me to think we have a chance, it's because you genuinely do not want us to have a chance, genuinely are not interested, not just trying to pretend. So I'm sitting here. . . . If I were reading this on someone else's journal, if I were the Sandra of a few years ago, if things were different, I would have said, dammit, Sandra, just go for it! Go talk to him! But things are the way they are, and I'm not me of a few years ago, I'm me of today, and this is my journal, not someone else's. But anyway, of course, I'm never ever ever going to give up. This is the secret plan. I'm going to work out plenty and take care of my skin, and get all pretty and crap, and then I'm going to casually drop by, hey, how's it going? Fancy meeting you here . . . and while you're enraptured by my new beauty, I'll hit you over the head with a club, and drag you by your hair to my cave. Mwahahaha.
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