Parts of this entry was written last week in a fit of indulgence, folly and sickness. Yes, I was sick, ill, unfit to see the world last week. I guess I still am. But you see, we agreed a week ago on Monday, after another rousing argument in public to call it quits and start again.

He lied. He fucking lied, but then it doesn't matter anymore does it not? When everything boils down to starting anew and shuttling everything else under the covers and hope that it never comes to light ever again. But we know it is still there, don't we?

Know it as we know for certain that summer in Australia is ugly. Everything is brown and yellow and dying. And the greens are not the verdant vivid greens of life but interspersed with rust and brown and murky yellow. It doesn't draw the eye so much as inform you in a lifeless monotone that they are struggling to be green. The heat rises like a wave obscuring your true vision of your surroundings. You can't think of anything but the heat scorching you, your life and everything that is living.

And that is how this summer love is going to be. I will always associate it with the last dying summer I had in Australia. Ugly and depressing. Struggling to live. Everything pretty is tainted with dust and heat.

***

"If not one thing than the other. I am sick of this. I promised myself that the day I started crying over the man I am going out with, with no ceasefire in sight, unceasing tears, I am sick of it all. I am sick and tired of weeping with frustration. Why has he changed from before?

"He's tiring of me. As he did with her. One day I will see him "off to study" in someone's else's room. Perhaps not necessarily another girl (but that is highly likely), but Fatboy's room. I hate him. I do. I hate him for making me weep all the time. Not merely cry, but weep and sob and howl. I hate the sense of weakness that sweeps over me when it happens. I hate it and to compound my sense of agony, he doesn't try and comfort me when it happens. Not like the first time.

"Mother was right, men are only sweetest when they woo. Moreover, I begin to think that my sense of dread is that I know I made a mistake. I merely ditched the guy I have no more feelings for someone I lusted for, but that would be a lie. I needed someone else. But yes I made a mistake in the cold calculating terms of practicality. I ditched the guy who loved me more for someone to be next to me when I lie down on the bed. I ditched the man that loved me more than himself. Where can one find another person like that? I fear that I will constantly be on the prowl for another that would love me. No one can match the greatest love of my life. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate me. I hate him.

"Why do men torture me so? Maybe, I torture myself because life needs to have pain to be life. The Capt certainly tormented me in the beginning, and then when he succumbed, when the scales tipped to me, I lost him, and lost myself. I am tired. I am tired of feeling so sexually frustrated, emotionally frustrated, mentally taxed in trying to keep up with him. He is such a hypocrite. All women are toys to him. He might not see it, but he doesn't love me enough.

"Maybe I don't love enough, I see him as a companion, a fortification against the battle that wages everyday in life. Truly, and the only reason why I wish to hold onto him is because of sentimental value. Then why do I hurt when I recall the time I realised that I actually felt an inkling of hurt when I found him three days later in bed with her? I put it down to hurt pride, but it was more than that. I did like him, but the Capt was perhaps more satisfying emotionally and physically. Where was the sweet man? He did court me with notes, but I am the sort of insecure female who requires ardent declarations. Superficial, but true. It is manna to me for someone to love me.

"He didn't. Maybe because he was hurt and rejected, oh yes; he said my loss caused him to seek consolation elsewhere. But those photos bespeak happiness in the curve of the hand on her hip. She looked uncomfortable though. Perhaps losing her virginity to him wasn't all that wonderful? And now I can't look at those pictures without feeling ill. I am tired of it all. I am sick and tired of it all. And I don't have the courage to end it all.

"A pretty doll with a pretty smile. That is what I will always be. A marionette tugged along by strings. Strings of love, expectations. A perfectionist.

"(Why can't I cry without looking disgusting. Strings and strings of clear mucus. At least it isn't green.)

And what does it boils down to? He doesn't love me as much as the other. To go through life with a disappointment like that. "

***

I have been trying to make The Other Boelyn Girl last the week. Reading it in drips and draps. Savouring every paragraph. Trying to postpone the minute I close the book and finish the last line. It's like chocolate to a chocolate addict I think.

I am currently up to the part where Anne Boelyn is losing her mind in trying to keep the king's interest in her, and Mary Boelyn yearning for a simpler life. I know what Anne Boelyn (in the novel) is going through.