Some days I just hate myself. I can’t think of words for it. I’ve got this big pressure that builds up from my intestines. Or maybe my spleen. And it’s me, hating me. I shouldn’t be blogging this because it’s so personal. I want to talk about it, though, with someone who won’t give me advice. I’ve turned the comments off.
I know where the hate comes from. Today it came from Z. I ran into Z at the bus stop. Next time I’ll hide round the corner till the bus is gone. I don’t want to see Z again.
I went to school with Z, before she moved to Canberra. You wouldn’t believe it, but we were once best friends. If she wanted to do something, then I would jump up bright and cheerful and say, “Yes, Z,” not because it was a good idea, but because it would make her happy.
I saw her today. I said that
