What I absolutely dislike is the fact that people the Capt is not remotely close to, read my journal and draw their shallow conclusions tainted by his martyred look. I am not denying that I could have handled it better, with more sensitivity, but I have always been impatient, stubborn and sick of being this selfless little doll with the pretty face and the trained words to parrot. I will not be dragged down in guilt for what I thought was the best way to handle things. If it was wrong, then there is no point wallowing in self-pity is there? The milk is spilled, go mop it up and pour some more.

Perhaps I should never have retained any semblance of friendship with him. It gave him false assurance, a glittery sharp edged hope. I could always return to him. I should have not been greedy and hoped my own glittery hope that this time, an ex-boyfriend would remain friends. I never seem to be able to pick those that are able to. Some quirk of my personality draws me to these people who spark differently from what I would ideallly prefer.

And so, the shock of discovering the Beau through a medium I expressedly told him not to read, becomes my fault and to the girls around him, hovering like sympathetic bees, I am repeatedly stung.

I am not absolving myself from tactlessness and my myriad of sins. But I do resent dragging, no enticing others, with the whiff of scandal, hurt and pity into something that should rightfully remain private (oh the irony, the irony of this public but private medium!)

He allowed colleagues from his workplace, people, he had tittered at in his phone calls, to read this journal. I don't mind his friends, snubbing me to take his side, because it is their pregorative to do so. I would think less of them if they didn't, although it still hurts for them to do so. But mere acquaintances?

I am furious at the dissemination of my journal link. The journal and his exercise of power over it. That was the catalyst, which hastened the death of the relationship. And this proved that that fatal flaw was there.

Is it hindsight? Or merely a foreboding foresight?

I am angry because these people came, not with an open mind, but came, reading my private thoughts (those that I do share), having already tried and judged me, and went away with only those words that belied in their conclusion.

It is, as if I was dead. They remake my words to fit their mould of the living.

It is ironic, since my earlier drafts of my closing entry spoke of the impermanence, the limbo, the stasis I felt I was in. I never thought my last entry would be so bitter. All I ever wanted to say was, it has been fun, but I need to leave. This address is no longer emblematic of me.