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Tuesday, 4 March 2014

The dead are dead. Pretending they're not only makes it uncomfortable.

This may be a different form of procrastination. I've put off writing this post since Sunday. And I'm pretty sure there was more to talk about then but right now I sort of only care to write about the one thing: EBF and I talked. More than ten lines' worth of dialogue, too. I've been putting it off both because I'm still in no mood to write and because writing this post will require me going over the conversation, which I feel I may still be too weak to do without crying. And crying at 11:30 the day before a biostatistics test I have not at all prepared for, the day I decided to cook myself some onigiri, the day I spent 80% of playing hashi, the day Pf2 asked for data I had not been able to retrieve both for lack of trying hard enough and frank incompetence. I'm still not able to get the data. I stopped playing around with the code when I broke (maybe) the system on a MATLAB loop. Well, it's unlikely I broke it, the whole thing was iffy even before I fucked up, freaking out whenever I typed too fast and I'm quite sure closing down MATLAB should have solved the problem. At any rate, I still haven't done it and I feel awful for lying to Pf2. And for not studying and doing bare minimum in everything. I guess it's both good and bad that I can get away with it. Be that as it may, I bought myself lunch today, a rare luxury, as well as some ramen cups, chocolates, vitamins mum recommended and a little bit of wasabi sauce for the onigiri.

It's worth noting at this point that I actually, for the first time in a very long time, felt like cooking. If I lived by myself I would have baked myself a mint chocolate cake, but I suppose mint chocolate will still exist when I manage to live by myself. *sigh*

It's also worth noting I started writing about how I'm going to write about talking with EBF and I've put that aside by writing about other things.

I guess I should give him credit for actually talking to me before the week was completely over. I'd sort of made up my mind to send him a message quoting his promise to have time to talk in a week by Thursday if he failed to keep it. He technically did, since he made the promise on a Thursday and Sunday is well past a week after that, but he said "next week" and the week doesn't end until Sunday, so there's that too. Technicalities aside, on to the actual talking. 

I take issue with the way he talked. He started with an excuse "I said I'd have time, I didn't. I'm so busy" and then gave me a news report of his life in the last year or so. Which, if you've tried talking to news reporter when they're on television, makes it impossible to hold an actual conversation. So, when my time to ask questions came, I asked him how he chose what to tell me (i.e. why a report when what I pointed out was that we hadn't had a proper conversation since forever?) and then opted for asking about films or books he'd seen or read lately. There were none. When I tried to talk about the problem that was really bothering me he started making excuses. "Would it kill you to say 'hi' every once in a while?" "It's hard talking to you because I don't log onto Skype very often." "We haven't had conversations because all we talked about were art, literature and cinema and he hadn't had time for either lately." It angered me. I visit facebook often enough that I would have seen his messages, if not immediately, within a few hours. Skype is not that hard to log on to. It fucking kills me to say hello when every conversation dies, yes. The conversations have been dead a lot longer than the span of this starting year when he claims he's been the busiest. Why wouldn't he have told me about any of the shit going on in  his life any earlier? Why the fuck didn't he asked the more important questions to find out about my life?

I told him I quite frankly would be spared a great deal of trouble if he completely forgot my birthday, New Year's and Christmas (the only occasions, if at all, when he sort of bothers keeping in touch). He said "no way." And I see where he's coming from but he didn't quite seem to understand me. I'd much rather let go altogether, you know. And yet I have half a mind to leave him a message (he promised he'd read anything I sent, even if it took him days to get back to me) telling him the things I've told no one. Damned Pavlovian response. Damn it. 

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