A half drank bottle of crimson Cabernet sits next to me, rivers of blood and the music of Sondheim on the screen before me, and all I can think about is Mrs. Lovett. Yet another dream to survive unalone dashed, another heartfelt desire for children of her own to take care of kept out of arm's reach, and she ends up burning in flames, for wanting what is promised to the heart unduly.
Another birthday passed for me. Thirty six years, an old maid.
"There's a hole in the world and it's a big black pit, and it's filled with people that are filled with shit..."
I told myself when I started this blog that I was going to be honest, because it is only with honesty that we learn. I almost wish I hadn't done that, because I'd rather not discuss this, but I never learn, probably because I don't fess up to things I don't want to admit.
I did it again. I gave my heart to someone that would never acknowledge that it is valuable enough for him to make sure never to lose it. I gave my heart to someone that put his job, his pride, and everything else above it. I've told myself again and again that I am only worth what I put up with. It turns out that when I really want someone, I put up with a lot, but make myself worth nothing.
My fighter had his surgery. I took time off to help, but he won't see me "until he is healed". That is code for not this time around, again. The last time I was supposed to see him work got in the way. He felt so horrible, he apologized again and again, and promised to make it up to me. The time before that it was too late in the evening, and the next night made more sense, except that work contracts got in the way the next night. This time, with taking time off to help, and being denied yet again, I guess it finally hit me: if he doesn't want me when he is in need, no matter what shape he is in, he doesn't really want me. I can't do this anymore. I give up. So now, while he is laid up in the hospital, trying to recover from life threatening surgery, I told him goodbye.
I now sit at home, swigging wine, watching Mrs. Lovett manage to get imitations of the love and child that she craves from the bottom of her soul, the things she would do the unthinkable for, only to lose it all in the end.
I crave pie.
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