Oh man, I haven't slept in days, I haven't taken my scarf off in weeks, and I cursed out the nice lady in the crisis centre because she didn't know who Dostoevsky was, gods forgive me. I'm alone in my broom closet -ahem- apartment and I am burning and burning and my eyes are swollen shut with crying silly tears. I am nineteen years old. My name is sometimes Sasha. I love a boy who is less mature than I am. He makes my mind muddled and soft and foggy and not like me. There is a tiny piece of glass embedded in my right middle finger. So I come back here from my parents' house, and my lover won't meet me at the station because it is pouring rain and his raincoat is at my place. Even though the rain let up he still will not come, because of pride, he says, because we fought. He is so cold, it's all logic with him. One kind word, that's all I need to forgive him, one gentle word! But no, it's all his cold filthy logic. It is like ice in my muddled brain. I am proud too. He has insulted me. I can't let that pass by. If he does not show remorse, if he does not love me as I love him, I have to leave him. I can't live without my lover. I can't love without my liver, but that's another story. The wind is howling outside. I would I was locked in his arms, where I belong. He thinks he's going to marry me and take me to Russia. But I am a fragile, proud Duellist and he has another thing coming. I don't want to be lonely again. There are at least four boys who would take me. They would be gentle and submissive an humble. They would bore the hell out of me. All my lover has to do is smile or shake out his long, long hair and I am his, totally, body mind and soul. I used to not be anybody's. I don't want to be free again. I can't tell if I am being selfish or not. He's such a child sometimes. I don't think I'll marry him. We're moving in together in August and I'm scared to death. Everything is clear and bright with the clarity that comes with exhaustion. I'd do anything to sleep. I miss my lover. And pride prevents me from seeing him tomorrow. We would both have to come from old, proud families. The hell with it. If anyone read this nonsense, thank you. I could go on for another twenty pages. I don't know how much longer I can take this.