I think ... if I knew he was gone, I would mourn him, and if I didn't know, I'd feel obligated to at least try talking to him. But so long as I don't know, somehow, I can convince myself I don't need to do either.

So much for maturity.

Because it's my fault. And because I can't just come right out and tell you what's going on, and I acted horribly to you for years, so ... I should just get over it, but I'm not any good at that.

Did you ... miss me, after you moved out, to join the Turks?

(Dear LJ: I will cut you like the bitch you are if you do not start giving me notifications.)