Denial is a river in Egypt

And it's a very long river indeed. I should know; I've traveled it many times. A good amount of denial can be very convincing. If I can believe my own lies for a good five months, then that's decent. But it's no good for me at all. I find myself close to breaking down at any moment, if provoked. I'm filled with capricious emotional outbursts, like a pregnant woman.

Past entrys provide a window into all of this. It's very similar to Carrie Bradshaw's past columns put into a book, where each entry can be read in succession with each other. Mr. Big reads the book and tells Carrie, "I can't believe how much I hurt you." I read one entry and follow the roller coaster of my own consciousness and realizations of plain and simple pain.

Those tears are just waiting to escape at any given moment. It's a pain I don't want to admit, so I've masked it, forgot about it at times, even partied it out. But it's still there, taking the form of caustic contempt towards someone who doesn't seem to deserve it. I have to let it out sometime instead of thinking about it on my downtime. Maybe it can take the personal sting out. I mean, I got attached to this guy, and it's normal to be sad, frustrated and want to run away. No more blaming myself, wondering if I did any deal-breakers. I have to grieve, and even cry and accept the cold hard truth that I didn't get what many people want in life.

Denial kept me going on for five months, but the discomfort eventually builds up and becomes unbearable. And I know I'll look even stupider with my confession. It's emotional procrastination. Better late than never, right?