I'm not going to reem on you. I'm not mad. So don't think that I'm contacting you to bitch at you for being a bitch to me. I don't really care. I'm just fuckin' depressed. Really fucking depressed.
Why?
Why don't you answer my calls?
Why do you feed your mom bullshit to tell me when I call?
Why the fuck do you hate me?
Seven fucking years: Damn fucking right I'm going to keep on saying seven years. "It was only six." Oh? So I don't matter? So if I hit seven (on technicality) I might be able to talk to you? Why do you keep saying shit like that? "It was only six." Like that's not a big chunk of your life or anything. Why do you despise our relationship?
I can't stop asking myself questions.
I've become fucking sick of this question mark. It's fucking retarded. All I can think of is questions.
Why do you hate me?
Do you miss me?
Are you finally happy now that I'm dead to you?
Is it easy knowing that someone out there wants to talk to you?
Does it make you feel like you have power?
Do you get off on knowing I'm hurt?
Does that make you feel worth, or validity?
Why do you avoid me?
I'm sick your fuckin' hostility. I've done nothing but be nice to you. What the fuck did I do wrong? I "slept with two chicks at the same time"?! Is that it? You've told enough fucking people about that, even though it's bullshit. That's not what happened at all. You don't know anything about anything right now and that's only because you don't talk to me, and when you do, you take what I say and turn it into anything that'll make you look like the biggest victim ever.
Read "Haunted". You know damn well who it's by.
Life's too fucking short to play the victim all the fucking time. Nothing is wrong here. No matter how bad you want to make anything look, I still fucking love you, and I'm not being fucking mean.
I miss you.
I'm being sincere. I fucking mean that.
It pisses me off though, that I miss someone who won't even speak to me on the phone. Everytime I am accidentally lined through a stupid parent to talk to her, she's always gotta go in five minutes. "I got a date. A lunch date." Glad we've grown up, Jackie. You could have said "I gotta go. It's really important." But no, we have to rub in the ex-boyfriend's face that we're so much happier without him. Right? Way to go. Way to fucking go.
Would I do something like that to you?
No.
I don't owe you any information. But I sure as hell will tell you the truth about anything you'd ever ask me. Why? Because I'm a fucking moron for you.
But I will definately not tell you anything "just out of the blue" (for example, "I got a date. A lunch date.") because things like that are meant for nothing but hurt.
Why do you want to hurt me?
What did I do that was so wrong?
I called you a ridiculous amount of times tonight. Nothing. You said you'd talk to me. Why? If you knew you weren't going to, why did you tell me you would? That's not right. That's filling someone with false-hope. Again, a malicious attack. Why? What did I do that was so wrong? I was going to call your home number, but I know for a fact that your parents would say something as ridiculous as "She's visiting her nanny. Call back some other time." Dude, your nanny fucking lives with you. Like she can't speak ten feet away to wherever you're "visiting" the person who lives in your same fucking house. Your parents are mean.
I chucked a rock at your window. Taylor snapped and wouldn't stop barking. Little shit hasn't changed. You were most likely asleep. I kept on sending voicemails. Your mailbox is full. It's pretty much all the same shit.
"Miss you. Call me. Please."
I called you thirteen times at 1:13 because superstition, as fucking lame as it is, is all I got to cling onto right now. No dice. Lucky fucking thirteen's never failed me. Strange.
You fuckin' promised though. I made you promise and promise that you meant it when you said you'd talk to me. And low and behold... Here we are again.
What gives?
We need to talk. Well, I need to talk to you. I don't know if you need to talk to me. But I'm sick of a lack of closure.
Like I said...
If you don't want me fucking talking to you ever again, give me the fucking word, and as much as it'll hurt - I'll blow the side of my brain that is infected with lovely thoughts of pretty Jacqueline clean the fuck out of my head.
Or if you are a good person you'd at least talk to me and want to be cool with me on some level or another.
Seven fucking years. Seven fucking years for what?
What are we right now?
Enemies?
Why?
There's not one good fucking reason that I can even think of.
So seven years all for fucking naught. Nothing. If anything: hostility.
Why?
Seriously fucking think about it.
Why?
Who are you listening to that's making you take this shitty advice?
I'm not saying you are, but you got that bad habit of doing that. You act before you think, let alone for yourself. But I could be wrong. This could be your own actions. And if they are... Wow...
Why?
You know if I took any ONE person's advice on this whole matter, even though I have not been able to speak to anyone but two or three people about ANYTHING concerning you and I, and everyone's got a fucking opinion here no matter how little they know... I'd be fucking up. Becuase no matter how much I love these people as friends and family, they don't know shit. Because they don't know me.
Do you think the same way?
Or did you not learn anything from all the hard times we've been through before?
My point here is if I listened to any one person, I'd be doing a whole lot of dumb shit, such as telling you off to your face, flaunting hot bitches off deliberately yet "coincidentally" in front of you, stalking you, or fucking with your shit. I'm not going to do any of that. I have no urge to. But don't follow other peoples' advice, if you are. Look inside yourself BEFORE you look to others. For once. Old Jackie did that lots. Is she around these days?
I miss you. I truly do.
Casual acquaintances, friends, lovers, married-couple.
Or nothing at all.
Whatever we turn into, it's a whole lot fucking better than where we are right now because I don't know how you feel about this whole thing. I hate limbo. I fucking hate it. I sincerely fucking do. It's worse than hell. At least in hell you're certain that you're screwed.
I just want to talk. That's all. Even if you just gotta say three words. Be it "Fuck off forever" or "I love you" I just gotta know what you think.
I'm losing my mind trying to talk to you. I am. I truly am. It's hurting more and more.
Stop fuckin' hurting me. Please. Or at least stop making me hurt myself.
That's all I ask.
Like I said in number four of my messages. It's my fucking birthday. I hate birthdays, but desperate times call for desperate measures: My only birthday-wish is to fucking speak to you. That's all.
Can I get that?
I know you're super busy with work, and dates, and whatever the fuck... But I know you're full of shit if you say you can'ttalk to me, because just weeks ago, when everything was that way it is now, you still had time to get on the phone with me for fucking hours on end.
Your parents are terrible liars.
You're just as bad.
Now please.
Fucking talk to me?
Please?
I will drop my fucking birthday dinner, my birthday party, my fucking once-in-a-lifetime job-interview with a producer/director (dream coming true), band practice, recording time... you fucking name it. Talking to you is priority one right now.
It sounds so fucking stupid...
But please.
Please.
Just fucking talk to me.
I don't care when you get the urge to call me, if you decide to, you fucking do it. 4am-4pm-4am-4pm, I don't fucking care. I need to hear your voice. I just need to. I'd love to do this in person, but I'm so desperate I'm not going to picky. Your house, my house, restaraunt, park, heaven, hell, or even just on the fucking phone. I don't fucking care. Just fucking talk to me. Please.
If you want nothing to do with me. Just give me the word. I'll make that happen.
But the way I see it is, if I spent that many good times with you, for that long of a time, and felt that way I did for you for that long and THAT fucking intensely all throughout, through all the SHIT you've dragged me through... I am still trying. I just want to be on good terms with you. Even if we never speak, to know that you don't hate me for no fucking reason is good enough. You don't have to talk to me ever again, or you can call me two-hundred times a day, I don't really mind. As long as seven years equals an enemy. I don't hate anybody. And I sure as hell don't hate you.
If we see eachother walking down the road by some stroke of coincidence... I want to be able to walk up to you, say "Hi, how are you doing? What's up? What's new?" and smile when I see you.
Do you honestly think we can do that right now?
No.
And that's not by any action or fault of mine. I want this to be good. I fucking do.
Why don't you?
What the hell do you think you'd do if you saw me walking towards you down the street? You'd probably cross to avoid me, is what. Or turn around and run away.
Look, I'm fucking sorry, kiddo, but you've flat out fucked me one day, fucked another dude the next, and then fucked me the day after that without telling me, and I'm STILL HERE TO FUCKING BE ON GOOD TERMS WITH YOU. I have never fucked up that badly with you, and I showed you forgiveness and love... And look how much you're showing back.
Never once, even the shittiest times of my life, even when you've cheated on me with anyone, anytime, have I fucking denied you the ability to contact me.
Now show me some of the same respect that I've given you when you've fucked up this bad right now, even though I've done nothing wrong and we ended it fucking mutually.
We were supposed to remain friends. What the fuck happened to that?!
Why do you keep saying things you don't mean?
Why won't you even speak to me?
What did I do?
I miss my fucking Jackie. Even if she's not mine, I want to be able to say "I had that once. And it was the time of my life." And I want to be able to talk to you, either about the hard times, or simple about buttfucknothing. I just want to be good with you on SOME fucking level.
Can I get that?
But more importantly. Can we fucking speak?
Please?
If you want me to beg, I'll fucking beg. I did that already on message three of your voicemail.
But I'll do it again if you want.
As I type this I was born exactly 20 years ago. 3:10am. November eighth. Happy Birthday to me.
Fucking call me. Please?
I miss you. And I'll always fucking love you. Even after you fuck my dad in front of me and chop off my fucking penis and choke me to death on it. And beyond.
Call me.
I just want to talk.
And if you've read to here, thank you.
I mean it as much as I meant the one on the phone earlier today when you said you'd speak to me.
"You always sound sincere even when I don't think you are."
I always fucking am.
It's you.
I don't lie to you. And I don't fake.
But fuck all that shit. Fuck everything, nothing fucking matters but the fucking air molecules exiting your throat at certain pitches to create said voice. That little bit of air exiting your tiny body will mean the world to me.
May I please have this?
Please?
Be well. And call me whenever you can. And I don't mean waiting another two months. My birthday is technically today, and my wish has got to come true today.
Knowing my luck you won't even read this fucking message until next week or some bullshit.
Take care, lovely Jacqueline. I miss you. And I still fucking love you.
Thanks for everything. From all of my teen-years you've graced, to reading this retarded e-mail. Thank you.
Talk to you soon.
Why?
Why don't you answer my calls?
Why do you feed your mom bullshit to tell me when I call?
Why the fuck do you hate me?
Seven fucking years: Damn fucking right I'm going to keep on saying seven years. "It was only six." Oh? So I don't matter? So if I hit seven (on technicality) I might be able to talk to you? Why do you keep saying shit like that? "It was only six." Like that's not a big chunk of your life or anything. Why do you despise our relationship?
I can't stop asking myself questions.
I've become fucking sick of this question mark. It's fucking retarded. All I can think of is questions.
Why do you hate me?
Do you miss me?
Are you finally happy now that I'm dead to you?
Is it easy knowing that someone out there wants to talk to you?
Does it make you feel like you have power?
Do you get off on knowing I'm hurt?
Does that make you feel worth, or validity?
Why do you avoid me?
I'm sick your fuckin' hostility. I've done nothing but be nice to you. What the fuck did I do wrong? I "slept with two chicks at the same time"?! Is that it? You've told enough fucking people about that, even though it's bullshit. That's not what happened at all. You don't know anything about anything right now and that's only because you don't talk to me, and when you do, you take what I say and turn it into anything that'll make you look like the biggest victim ever.
Read "Haunted". You know damn well who it's by.
Life's too fucking short to play the victim all the fucking time. Nothing is wrong here. No matter how bad you want to make anything look, I still fucking love you, and I'm not being fucking mean.
I miss you.
I'm being sincere. I fucking mean that.
It pisses me off though, that I miss someone who won't even speak to me on the phone. Everytime I am accidentally lined through a stupid parent to talk to her, she's always gotta go in five minutes. "I got a date. A lunch date." Glad we've grown up, Jackie. You could have said "I gotta go. It's really important." But no, we have to rub in the ex-boyfriend's face that we're so much happier without him. Right? Way to go. Way to fucking go.
Would I do something like that to you?
No.
I don't owe you any information. But I sure as hell will tell you the truth about anything you'd ever ask me. Why? Because I'm a fucking moron for you.
But I will definately not tell you anything "just out of the blue" (for example, "I got a date. A lunch date.") because things like that are meant for nothing but hurt.
Why do you want to hurt me?
What did I do that was so wrong?
I called you a ridiculous amount of times tonight. Nothing. You said you'd talk to me. Why? If you knew you weren't going to, why did you tell me you would? That's not right. That's filling someone with false-hope. Again, a malicious attack. Why? What did I do that was so wrong? I was going to call your home number, but I know for a fact that your parents would say something as ridiculous as "She's visiting her nanny. Call back some other time." Dude, your nanny fucking lives with you. Like she can't speak ten feet away to wherever you're "visiting" the person who lives in your same fucking house. Your parents are mean.
I chucked a rock at your window. Taylor snapped and wouldn't stop barking. Little shit hasn't changed. You were most likely asleep. I kept on sending voicemails. Your mailbox is full. It's pretty much all the same shit.
"Miss you. Call me. Please."
I called you thirteen times at 1:13 because superstition, as fucking lame as it is, is all I got to cling onto right now. No dice. Lucky fucking thirteen's never failed me. Strange.
You fuckin' promised though. I made you promise and promise that you meant it when you said you'd talk to me. And low and behold... Here we are again.
What gives?
We need to talk. Well, I need to talk to you. I don't know if you need to talk to me. But I'm sick of a lack of closure.
Like I said...
If you don't want me fucking talking to you ever again, give me the fucking word, and as much as it'll hurt - I'll blow the side of my brain that is infected with lovely thoughts of pretty Jacqueline clean the fuck out of my head.
Or if you are a good person you'd at least talk to me and want to be cool with me on some level or another.
Seven fucking years. Seven fucking years for what?
What are we right now?
Enemies?
Why?
There's not one good fucking reason that I can even think of.
So seven years all for fucking naught. Nothing. If anything: hostility.
Why?
Seriously fucking think about it.
Why?
Who are you listening to that's making you take this shitty advice?
I'm not saying you are, but you got that bad habit of doing that. You act before you think, let alone for yourself. But I could be wrong. This could be your own actions. And if they are... Wow...
Why?
You know if I took any ONE person's advice on this whole matter, even though I have not been able to speak to anyone but two or three people about ANYTHING concerning you and I, and everyone's got a fucking opinion here no matter how little they know... I'd be fucking up. Becuase no matter how much I love these people as friends and family, they don't know shit. Because they don't know me.
Do you think the same way?
Or did you not learn anything from all the hard times we've been through before?
My point here is if I listened to any one person, I'd be doing a whole lot of dumb shit, such as telling you off to your face, flaunting hot bitches off deliberately yet "coincidentally" in front of you, stalking you, or fucking with your shit. I'm not going to do any of that. I have no urge to. But don't follow other peoples' advice, if you are. Look inside yourself BEFORE you look to others. For once. Old Jackie did that lots. Is she around these days?
I miss you. I truly do.
Casual acquaintances, friends, lovers, married-couple.
Or nothing at all.
Whatever we turn into, it's a whole lot fucking better than where we are right now because I don't know how you feel about this whole thing. I hate limbo. I fucking hate it. I sincerely fucking do. It's worse than hell. At least in hell you're certain that you're screwed.
I just want to talk. That's all. Even if you just gotta say three words. Be it "Fuck off forever" or "I love you" I just gotta know what you think.
I'm losing my mind trying to talk to you. I am. I truly am. It's hurting more and more.
Stop fuckin' hurting me. Please. Or at least stop making me hurt myself.
That's all I ask.
Like I said in number four of my messages. It's my fucking birthday. I hate birthdays, but desperate times call for desperate measures: My only birthday-wish is to fucking speak to you. That's all.
Can I get that?
I know you're super busy with work, and dates, and whatever the fuck... But I know you're full of shit if you say you can'ttalk to me, because just weeks ago, when everything was that way it is now, you still had time to get on the phone with me for fucking hours on end.
Your parents are terrible liars.
You're just as bad.
Now please.
Fucking talk to me?
Please?
I will drop my fucking birthday dinner, my birthday party, my fucking once-in-a-lifetime job-interview with a producer/director (dream coming true), band practice, recording time... you fucking name it. Talking to you is priority one right now.
It sounds so fucking stupid...
But please.
Please.
Just fucking talk to me.
I don't care when you get the urge to call me, if you decide to, you fucking do it. 4am-4pm-4am-4pm, I don't fucking care. I need to hear your voice. I just need to. I'd love to do this in person, but I'm so desperate I'm not going to picky. Your house, my house, restaraunt, park, heaven, hell, or even just on the fucking phone. I don't fucking care. Just fucking talk to me. Please.
If you want nothing to do with me. Just give me the word. I'll make that happen.
But the way I see it is, if I spent that many good times with you, for that long of a time, and felt that way I did for you for that long and THAT fucking intensely all throughout, through all the SHIT you've dragged me through... I am still trying. I just want to be on good terms with you. Even if we never speak, to know that you don't hate me for no fucking reason is good enough. You don't have to talk to me ever again, or you can call me two-hundred times a day, I don't really mind. As long as seven years equals an enemy. I don't hate anybody. And I sure as hell don't hate you.
If we see eachother walking down the road by some stroke of coincidence... I want to be able to walk up to you, say "Hi, how are you doing? What's up? What's new?" and smile when I see you.
Do you honestly think we can do that right now?
No.
And that's not by any action or fault of mine. I want this to be good. I fucking do.
Why don't you?
What the hell do you think you'd do if you saw me walking towards you down the street? You'd probably cross to avoid me, is what. Or turn around and run away.
Look, I'm fucking sorry, kiddo, but you've flat out fucked me one day, fucked another dude the next, and then fucked me the day after that without telling me, and I'm STILL HERE TO FUCKING BE ON GOOD TERMS WITH YOU. I have never fucked up that badly with you, and I showed you forgiveness and love... And look how much you're showing back.
Never once, even the shittiest times of my life, even when you've cheated on me with anyone, anytime, have I fucking denied you the ability to contact me.
Now show me some of the same respect that I've given you when you've fucked up this bad right now, even though I've done nothing wrong and we ended it fucking mutually.
We were supposed to remain friends. What the fuck happened to that?!
Why do you keep saying things you don't mean?
Why won't you even speak to me?
What did I do?
I miss my fucking Jackie. Even if she's not mine, I want to be able to say "I had that once. And it was the time of my life." And I want to be able to talk to you, either about the hard times, or simple about buttfucknothing. I just want to be good with you on SOME fucking level.
Can I get that?
But more importantly. Can we fucking speak?
Please?
If you want me to beg, I'll fucking beg. I did that already on message three of your voicemail.
But I'll do it again if you want.
As I type this I was born exactly 20 years ago. 3:10am. November eighth. Happy Birthday to me.
Fucking call me. Please?
I miss you. And I'll always fucking love you. Even after you fuck my dad in front of me and chop off my fucking penis and choke me to death on it. And beyond.
Call me.
I just want to talk.
And if you've read to here, thank you.
I mean it as much as I meant the one on the phone earlier today when you said you'd speak to me.
"You always sound sincere even when I don't think you are."
I always fucking am.
It's you.
I don't lie to you. And I don't fake.
But fuck all that shit. Fuck everything, nothing fucking matters but the fucking air molecules exiting your throat at certain pitches to create said voice. That little bit of air exiting your tiny body will mean the world to me.
May I please have this?
Please?
Be well. And call me whenever you can. And I don't mean waiting another two months. My birthday is technically today, and my wish has got to come true today.
Knowing my luck you won't even read this fucking message until next week or some bullshit.
Take care, lovely Jacqueline. I miss you. And I still fucking love you.
Thanks for everything. From all of my teen-years you've graced, to reading this retarded e-mail. Thank you.
Talk to you soon.
VIEW 19 of 19 COMMENTS
metaverse:
Damn dude. I hope something good has happened. I'd give you some of my sage advice, but I got nothing right now. I read that all, and I could feel that pain almost. Have faith.
ra0ul:
Your last entry was a bit of a roller coaster, how have things been of late?