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Compulsive blogging? Guilty as charged.

What do I do? Ache and pain are only words, academic concepts. I feel ill in a way, to tell the truth.

There's only so much I'll bare in the other, more public, platforms.

There's only so much I can say in the other formats, this is a more suitable one where I can unleash and vent myself.

I will need to check the remaining data credit. I worry I'll be out and blocked very soon, courtesy of Virgin Mobile (now, the joke tells itself).

It's as if both of us left a trail of breadcrumbs. You can trace it back to the source. I made sure it was done that way.

Yours, on the other hand, starts and finishes in the middle of nowhere. That, after that time where you seemed to have been swallowed by the very earth.

It feels like too much not to be able to speak with you. That's at times utterly overwhelming, physically so.

And now, this coming thing...

How I hate the set up.
How I hate to have run out of easy jokes.
How I hate the gaping wound on my chest.
How I hate that anything I say or do is misunderstood.
How I hate not to have a reason to know you're all right.
How I hate the easy advice from people without a clue.
How I hate being called a liar.