I'm fucking writing an emotional diary entry over Facebook chat.
And now I'm shaking it off onto my wit, and understanding that I lack the poetic poise in my words she'd prefer.
I'll commend her though. I'm impressed with her skill to manipulate.
I've always asked myself, and them; whether they know they do it.
Usually I'm ironically denied and redirected with a flying ball of 'how dare you? I am completely reasonable with howmuchmoreimportantwhatisayisregardless'. Then I have to think twice as hard to stay disciplined and remember back to what the issue is- all in the time she gives me to claw their words.
And show them my understanding.
I'm stood corrected and advised by the reoccurring morality of their heist to stand back, and detach myself. To let the explanation be heard of once again how it hurts.. which I've eventually counted to factorise and now regrettably conclude.
You eventually find yourself hesitant with a wide lense and opportunity to lamp. The opportunity to put your foot forward is dismissed as a hopeful-dampener to soften it all and to probably get them to shut the fuck up.
I'm fascinated by the crevice some just unfathomably seem to miss to acknowledge every time. But my fascination in an episode of their emotive attitude has finally begun to lose its interest.
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