Over and over people tell you, say, if you are with a married man, "He'll never leave his wife." And almost never, never! Do they.

I feel like that exception. Where I was living some breezy, content thing, loving, being loved. When that was not being lived back. And, bang, a mistress gets a ring.

Everyone tells ME, then, that the kind of people who can do this shit, will always do it. That in one year, someone else will have to face this music.

But, then, why do I doubt it? Why do I so deeply feel that you are ok. That you just needed to be somewhere else, not with me, and you were afraid. Why does it eat my soul so slow and deliberate to think that that wasn't me. People capable of deception at this level CAN'T help but offer and inferior product. That's what I had, knowing or not. Same with her. It was half out the door.

Then why, why, why does it make so sick. So sad. So ill to think of their happiness?

Someone told me I was more preoccupied with them than me. But isn't that what happens? I am jealous. I am lost. I lose. I miss, no one else misses. No one misses. They have theirs. Where's mine? I am the one who was promised, and touched, and tasted that happiness and then, was not good enough. Was not right.

What could I have said and done differently?

Why would I be more concerned about myself? How could I ever concentrate on that? When that is just a boiling cesspool of why was it me? What awful thing are you to not deserve anything? Of feeling alone alone alone and rejected...and those feelings come from where? THEM. How can I avoid it. It is what I am. I AM jealousy. I am rejection, desperation, low self-esteem. I AM these things.

I am alone. Terrified and miserable and shocked and whimpering like a dog that should just be shot.

I wish I could just evaporate. I wish someone would run me over, just a little, enough to wake up some other time. I want to feel something else. I want for one minute to feel really good. To feel happy. To feel safe or loved. I just want to feel peace or calm. I just want to be soothed. Comforted. And I feel like my best source for all those things just told me he didn't want anything to do with me.

Because he did.

I am a waste. A limping, useless thing without the will to get up and try. Where's that guy that shot Old Yeller when you need him, eh?

I am glad no one reads this. I am a tiresome bore and a chore for anyone who used to give a fuck. Not you, ole Blogger. Thank you for being dead enough to tolerate me.

Shit.