Why do I care about so many things that are completely unimportant?

We had a play reading tonight, of my play that I wrote. It went rather well, I got some great notes from the dramaturg in the bunch and some decent actor's notes from the actor in the bunch. I didn't read, as I wanted to listen and make notes as I listened. Now I wish I'd read. The Viking wants to play the part of the guy that my character makes out with in the play. I don't know how I feel about that. A) he smokes. B) I think he just wants to kiss me without any recourse. I think B because I told him I thought he would be good for the other part, which was the guy that is involved with the other female character. But he chose Henry, and that's what he'll play.

I talked to Gaffer for about an hour today and realized that no, we are not closer, as I may have thought, but are in the exact same position we were before. I'm still important to him, we're still friends, he still wants to see how I'm doing and say hello and take some sort of care, but he's very happy to be single and on his own and not responsible for anything or anyone. Nothing new. I guess that's good, he's happy, and that's important to me. It just makes me a bit sad. I feel very much on the peripheral, and I care about him very much, but sooner or later, I won't be there for him in this way anymore. There's only so much "arm's length" a girl can take before she breaks free, and I miss him so terribly much, so much more than he misses me, though he does miss me in his little way.

It's a sad situation, and in the long run, he's going to lose me and in that same long run, he's going to regret losing me, because I'm the best girl he'll ever meet.

And he knows that.

So much sadness in a holiday, though it's a day like any other day. How is it that on two (or three if you count Valentine's) nights of the year we all feel just that much lonlier and more sad than we need to, all because of a number or theme associated with those days? I am just as alone tonight as I was three months ago, as I will be on New Year's Eve. Yet on NY, and Christmas Eve, and more so Boxing Day, I feel utterly alone and alienated from the one person right now that anchors me and validates me and makes me feel like there's something to look forward to in life?

Without that anticipation, I have no beauty to hope for, and therefore no reason to be here. Ask Camus about it, he'd make sense of it all.

I'm so tired of that brick wall I seem to bang my head against. There's a mark on it that matches my forehead exactly. How nice.

I'm a fool. A fool with cats and a pink bra.

Night.