The Perils of Justifying Oneself
The concert went swimmingly, though the cost energy-wise of Desperately and Enthusiastically Okay was apparent by the end of the day. I wasn't, of course, as sparkly and graceful as I might've liked, but who the hell is in these sorts of situations? (I had been earlier, says a little, eminently traitorous voice in my mind. I had been sexy and alive and vibrant(!) earlier. What the hell happened?)
I don't know. I'm miles better than I had been even a few weeks ago, but I'm still...very angry. Last night, I wanted just to march up to him, finger jabbing into that well-muscled chest, and scream. I'm all too aware that this would probably give him, in his mind, good grounds to completely discount me. I just want him to know, to be confronted with things that he can't repress. He can't repress ME.
(And now it's like shifting off those bonds of silence, shame-facedness, and un-met looks.)
There's more to it. There's always more it it.
Until there isn't? But that's okay, and probably a fair far ways off.
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