I ate a total of three scones, one chicken patty, a one litre carton of milk, two cans of vanilla coke, three milkshakes, a bowl of salad, two eggs, one sausage and one bowl of rice in the past six days. I have alternated between very little sleep (one to two hours) to a record of sixteen hours for Tuesday.

This is what my horoscope for today (or rather yesterday, since it is past midnight) was:You're about to become engaged in a fight to the finish at this time. Be sure that you have prepared yourself.

Yah, I think it was. He said the relationship was over. Then he changed his mind. I found out when the damned polaraids were taken, and yes, she has a matching set. He said she suggested the damned things in the first place. They were taken when he felt the "most intense" about her. That line was assembled from previous shambling corpses of arguments, quarrels, lovers' sweet-talk. I wonder if it was a memento of something far different. They were in his billfold simply because he had forgotten all about them. I am tired. I am so very tired. Such little things enervate. Funny. He suggested I take some of those sort of pictures at a time when we were definitely happy. As in pre-quarrel days. So he was not the initiator of those little activities? Funny.

He attributed his sexual awakening to the first girlfriend. She was a bad girl, he said, she said. He was a nice boy fresh from a Catholic school. A choir boy. Funny. And all I can think of right now is the time I interrupted her and him. The other. The other. The other.

He is wearing down. One day, like Rhett Butler, his love would wear down. His love has worn down. Eroded. I will edit this entry later. Maybe I won't. Silly spoilt little Scarlett. I think I mentioned that I wish I was more like her. Well. I think I am.

Except for the strength and determination, that admirable determination. Oh, and everything died in me. Everything. I am just running on automatic. I'm automatic. Yes, no, yes, no. I'm tired. I'm tired. Such a litany.