Foul Language

I rang the doorbell. I waited for the proper invitation in. I guess they thought it was weird that I didn't just barged in. I came in. Reused the drink. Refused the catalope. Refused the bedroom. Refused the seat.

I waited. Five minutes. I pushed the door open and stood in the doorway. He was putting on shoes. He's going to take more than five minutes to change his shirt, pants, and to put on some shoes?

I felt the invitation to stay in the bedroom. I don't want to stay here in the bedroom. I didn't want to stay in this house. We went around the house. I crushed some cans so I don't resort to violence. So much for working on himself, he's the same. Rotting and stupid. Expecting too much from everyone but nothing from himself. Of course I know he sets goals, whatever. Easily influenced shit-head. There is nothing left. There is no reason to stay.

Affirmations.
It didn't work on me the first five years and it's not going to work on me now. What the hell is he thinking?

I came all this way, for a mix CD he had never made, and the typical affirmations he's been doing since he broke the promise. So much for doing anything for me. Slugade. Slow. And lazy.

I came here to make sure he meant what he said, to convience myself that there is still something left in this "friend" that has done nothing for me but frustrate me. I have been pulling him out of every hole since I've met him and all he can do is be an ingrate and think about owning me. Fuck. FUCK.