keep your fucking ideas to yourself. you do not know me, or this situation - or anyone involved as much as you would love to convince yourself, for the sake of conversation I am sure, that you do. I am torn the fuck a part, and I am so sick to death of everyone telling me why I feel the way that I do, and then in turn telling me how it is that I feel. who are you to tell me how I am or feel? you haven’t lived the life that I have - not once, not ever. you have not seen this relationship from its roots, have not seen that things that have happened however small that perhaps make me tick in the way that I do. what you do see is surface area, what you see is my facade. what you see is my fault and I suppose I cannot blame you for that.
