Please Believe Me.

All things to all people. It is 945 on a Tuesday and I wanted to write that in military time just to show that I could. Show who? Emily, where will you be when you read this? And who. Remember me when you read it, and remember exactly what it felt like right now, what you are about to endure. Have gone through. 945 and getting colder again outside, the only thing I want to do is go for a run. Beat my body. There is no good reason to feel the way that I do. That is the entire problem. Too logical, I have nearly forgotten what to do with emotions as they pertain to me, to my own situation. Too used to safeguarding somebody else's.

Fierce. You are faking it.

You think it's the only commodity that you have to offer. He said on the phone, "you have been trying to have a relationship with a 14 year old." You can get better from that. You can do something with the 14 year old. What do I do with it? You can become someone new, and I am the same Emily. The one who feels like an idiot for this thing she doesn't recognize as her life. Watch it fall, all around you. It pisses me off that you are calling the shots and my exposed emotions are forcing rash decisions.

To run, tonight. I am not myself. Soft little baby. I like to watch my arms in the mirrors at the weight room. I like to catch people looking at my arms. I have Trogdor arms, and they are freakish. When I move the 45s around, my shoulders ripple. I want them to be bigger. Stronger. Kat said, "that is commitment to a goal, you have changed your body forever." I want to change all the rest with it, down to the inability to concentrate on anything but my waning sense of self worth.

A fraud. "What must it be like," you watch the fish go by, "to swim so resolutely?" Not myself.