sunt unele lucruri pe care nu pot sa mi le zic nici macar mie, daramite sa le pun pe un blog care, culmea, imi mai poarta si numele. So much for the internet identity illusion. 8-|
SO, the last phrase came out wrong, but I have no idea how to re-do it so that it would have the meaning I intended to.
I'm a rabbit-hearted girl. No need for further explanations. I can't say anything, and I pray for him not to open his mouth when I pas him by bringing a bunch of plates because I might break them.
He needn't have stopped in the middle of the way. He needn't have sat with his parents so much. He didn't talk to me, not even when I asked about anyone wanting coffee. I don't even deserve a "no". I don't exist.
It' s fine, I'm kinda used to it. with you there's no certified guarantee, only an expired warranty as Bogdan would state. You don't talk to me. I don't either. Neither to me nor to you.
Looking on the bright side, I can now write about coffee, spilled one, spinning in circles, you &babies, and me being a wannabe-waitress. I can write about Swiss, and neon-yellow - which affects me very much, & you being nice to D - like really really nice- some type I've never seen before, of kindness of course, in you. I can write about you new beard who suits you great, and me pretending you're not there and saying stupidities absolutely non-related to the topic, but knowing you might listen to me[but not looking at you] makes me bla bla incoherently. I can't help it, but I try to make it look ok. Polish myself a brand new-wannabe image, of self-sufficient, not-caring-for-you person,will be my slogan, because this is what you are. I am full of love, did you see that today?
Did you even look at me? or was I simply the waitress? The one who just... screws everything up and walks here and there searching for somebody to help or something to do? Well, that's who I am. It's what I do. I try to fix people. I can't fix myself, that's a conclusion I've reached after 2 years. You're a crack that healed on one hand and damaged on the other. Dammit, sometimes I can't feel a thing. It's how numb I am.
It's why I like your brothers, and kids, cuz they don't get lonely. They are so happy they give it to me. It's the time in my life when I am not numb.
I think your mother hates me. I don't know why. Maybe, as she would say, I read between the lines, and I shouldn't. But how can you not do that? When you say something there are so many things you actually express... I take me, I take A. and H. and S., we all express so much in what we say. Although sometimes we may seem we're at a loss for words, that we're lacking them, we still say so much.
Is it about the way we say it? Is it about the heart we put in?
Nobody's gonna come and save me, I pulled too many false alarms.
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