Zorba the Hutt

everything reminds me of . . . things I don't want to be reminded of. I ate dinner sitting in the exact same place she was sitting when she apologized to me (and I thought she meant it, and I thought it would matter). The couch wasn't there anymore, my mom rearranged the furniture as usual. I don't know how she does it - I always had to do it for her. But it was the same place.

And I went upstairs and looked at my bed and nearly cried, because I could *see* her lying there, like when I left after that first break after being with her awake until 6 in the morning, and we were both drifting in and out in this warm haze of happiness. And I had to go downstairs to pack, and I asked her if she wanted me to wake her up to go off to the plane with me. And she said, yeah, but not if I'm sleeping too deeply. So I tried to wake her up, but not too hard, and then just stood there and looked at her, she was so beautiful.

And half a week later she told me she was going to kill herself. Such is life.

She wasn't there at the airport - I don't know if she even knows I'm in town. Or cares. I did realize . . . that I still love her, as stupid and idiotic as that is. The heart, you know, she makes her own rules.

Too many memories. A friend of mine, one of my teachers in high school, got a new laptop - some incredibly expensive Macintosh powerhouse. Sounds great. The last time I saw him . . . was when I was with her, and I still thought it would work out.

"Too many memories" doesn't anagram that well. I started with setec astronomy, for reasons that should be obvious. The best I can get out of it is "moimee astronomy". It doesn't sound the same, somehow.

Too many memories. And I don't know which are right anymore. My mom told me to look through her log . . . and, and . . . DAMMIT. It's just NOT FUCKING FAIR. I was there for her, I was! And I would have given anything to be there, absolutely anything, and I wanted to be there and love her . . . and it's over. And she says things like "I wish it could have worked out" . . . but she's not willing to do what it would take, she doesn't want it to anymore. And I try to say I don't, that it's okay, that I'll live . . . but I still love her, and I still want to be with her.

It's just . . . I don't want to be hurt like that again.

And I don't really have that choice now, anyway.

I should go try to sleep.

But that involves going to my bed . . . too many memories.

There's something wrong.

I look through these logs, and . . . there's something just plain *wrong* about them. Like how she was trying just as hard as I was to keep it working. I can see that now, I don't know if I could then or not. And then she says she *did* want to make it work - and still *does*. Or does did. If that makes sense. "Wish it could've worked." Note that this is, like, a mere month ago. Less than a month ago.

So what on earth *happened*?

I need to talk to her, or I think I need to talk to her. I just have to know what happened . . . if it really is Murphy, if she really can't forgive a series of honest mistakes . . . and, I don't know, I'm not just trying to get back together with her, or maybe I am. I just have to know what happened. And, sigh, I STILL love her . . . and maybe it could work.

I'm probably wrong. But I have to know.