But I'll never forgive or forget.

It physically takes the breath from my lungs. Cool air slowly releases, perhaps it's warm, but my mouth is hotter, like when you feel cold and you ask someone to feel you to prove it, but they are always colder.

It's not just my heart on which he pulls the strings, but my entire chest. My empty lungs stretch uncomfortably, my heart twangs, my ribcage creeks from the weight of his words.

He is dangerous. I think I knew it when I first met him, but young and foolish as I was I bit the bullet he shot at me, and I held on and for a while it was good. Nice. Fun. It was exciting. After so long the excitement died, and his harsh but witty humour became nothing but unnecesssary and hurtful. I was holding on to the bullet that I had clenched between my teeth, but the thrill of catching it was no longer there, only the fear of letting it go. There was nothing left for us, I knew it almost instantly, and he knew too.

Perhaps it was because I couldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. Or perhaps it was because I couldn't trust myself. Or perhaps it was just never going to work. I don't like to think that any of those were right, but it was true. I was young and he was nasty. What could I do but take a time out. Breathe. Live.

He did a horrible thing and he hurt me. To this day I don't know why I deserved it, from either of them. I did all I knew to do from the start. I was practically a child, I couldn't be blamed for the things I said. I couldn't be blamed for something that was out of my power.

I said things I meant. I'm not going to lie and say that it was the heat of the moment. I wished the worst kind of pain on him. I wished eternal darkness. I wished memories which will burn and sting everytime he remembered. In many ways I still wish the last upon him.

Many say that time is required to forgive and forget. That may be true, and while over time I forgot many details, I forgot most of the time in which our lives intertwined, I forgot his face and I forgot his history, forgive him I did not.

I was shocked in myself, the first time I contacted him. Why? I asked myself over and over. Why am I doing this? But nonetheless I pressed send and soon send turned into the small, round green phone and I heard his voice. It hadn't changed at all, it was still amazing, captivating. I expected to be repulsed and find an excuse to leave, but instead I was mesmerised, listening to him talk, for hours and hours and then for hours the next day, and everyday. It was probably then that I could feel myself falling. I wish I had the strength then to cut it off, to strangle our relations to within an inch of it's life. Instead I allowed myself to be swallowed whole by his silken accent. It blanketed me, warmed me, I could hardly even remember why I had been so mad at him.

Okay, so perhaps that is a lie. I remembered well, but what could I do? I was trapped, but I pretended to myself that I wasn't, that I was in charge. Like an alcoholic I told myself I could give him up if I wanted to, I just didn't want to.

And so I fell further and further, like Alice down the rabbit hole. I thought I'd fall forever, tumbling, reaching for an edge to hoist myself up on, but there was nothing, complete blackness but it was warm. Filled with feelings of artificial love that I had fooled myself into seeing. I could have fallen forever and never cared, but then I hit the ground. As I hit I must've smacked my head, and my heart because there he stood Friday 26th March 2010 and I fell back in love with the man that had filled me with a kind of anger that scared me only a few years before.

Things I hate about my bestfriend:

He is an extremely picky eater.
He buys a glass of coke and only drinks half
He is grumpier than the dwarf
He lets me win.
He beats me when I tell him not to let me.
I thought he was a massive arsehole and it turned out I was wrong.
He lives too far away.
He cut his beautiful hair off.
He doesn't mix tastes in food which makes him impossible to cook for.
He doesn't respect my love of the following things; Marmite, Broccoli, Tomatos, Noodles, The Sims, Twilight, Spot Popping, Cider, Crap TV Shows.
He watches Shameless.
He watches Hollyoaks.
He watches EASTENDERS!
I can't take him seriously.
He is either grumpy or being silly.
E proppa takes the piss atta ma accent.
He flinches when I try to pop his spots.
He plays silly Facebook games.
He always tells me that we're going to die in 2012.
He is getting a pin-up girl tattoo on his leg.
He is always mean to his Nan (Her name is NOT Sweaty Betty!)
He calls his Nan, Gran.
He has a poor taste in girlfriends.
He is better than me at every single game.
He is annoying.
He farts in my general direction.
He lets people (especially girls!) walk all over him.
He is easily angered.
He has lost faith in humanity.
He wont play Animal Crossing with me.
He thinks he is tough, but really he is a little kitten. Meow.
I love him to pieces and would be lost without him.

Three AM

If I could use one word to describe it, then I'd just give up all hope and never mention it, because as much as I want it to be nothing, something I can just pick out a single word to describe and leave it at that, I can't, it's far to important and it's too much of a big deal, to me anyway.

If I had to describe it at all I'd say it was tiring, frustrating, annoying perhaps, but then again annoying is such an over used word, I mean a bee buzzing is annoying but I'd in no way ever relate this feeling to that of a bee buzzing.

I'm talking about when it's three in the morning and you're sort of tired, but then again you're not tired at all. Your brain is nothing but mush under the intense thoughts that blind you and knock all common sense from your system. You're sat with your legs crossed, then with your legs stretched, then with one curled under the other, then you're sick of sitting all together and you stand with the majority of your weight on your left foot, then your right, then you balance your weight equally, but that feels weird, so you sit back down, this time with your arms crossed, then you lean back on your hands, then you stretch them above your head.

You can see why this might become tiring, yet, even after all the fussing around, I'm still not tired. It's frustrating and infuriating all at once.

It's usually three in the morning and I cannot sleep because all I want to do is run around, lift weights, skip, jog a few miles, do push ups and sit ups and any other ups you can think off. I want to thrash my arms and legs out around me like a child having a tantrum, I want to shake my body like a wet dog, I want to do hand stands and cartwheels and all the rest. I want to do anything just to be tired and go to sleep.

And while that’s all fine and dandy, I mean lots of people find it easier to sleep after doing some form of exercise, whatever it may be, I want to do more than just that. I want to scream bloody murder until my throat bleeds if necessary, until it is red raw and it hurts to so much as breathe. I want to pull my hair out and I want to throw things, it doesn’t matter what things really, I suppose something breakable would be ideal for the satisfying crash at the end.

I want to rip my pillow open with my teeth and I want to punch my bed until my hands throb. I want to rip all my pictures off the wall and I want to screw them up into little balls and throw them out the window. I want to do anything to make this night end.

Of course I cant scream, and I can’t break things and I cant do any of the things I listed, maybe because I can’t be bothered to lift my head from the pillow, maybe because I’d have hell to pay the next day, maybe because by the time I’ve listed all the things I want to do I’m already breathing softly, unaware of the cold night breeze creeping through my window and the steady, thump thump, thump thump of my lover’s heart.

Buses are the bane of my existence.

Each morning, a frightening reminder of the morning before, grey in the skies and grey on the ground. Grey buildings and grey cars, are we really going around in circles over and over? It feels like it.

When I get my bus every morning, it's 8:30am. I'm tired, bored, frustrated and confused with my life. I don't care how old, friendly, drunk, bored, interesting, famous or rich you are, don't talk to me.

There are two prams on this bus already ma'am, so either tell your five year old girl so stop being a lazy bitch and get out the pram or walk. Oh, and you with the super-pram, I can see you've just had a pretty little baby, but that will not stop me putting my foot up your ass if you bring that buggy on here again, what does it morph into, Optimus Prime's dog? It's massive and if I have to move one more time, because you spent more money on that buggy than a car, I will take that baby and throw it out the window.

I swear to God, if one more mother-fucking pikey sits next to me and bathes me in their retched pissy body oder I will shoot them down. I honestly will. That goes for chain-smokers that smell like wet ash too. I will have to cut you.

Mr. Bus-driver, I ask you kindly to please stop fucking about. You are wasting my, and my 28 fellow bus mates, time. If you get to the station at 8:45am, I expect you to leave at 8:46am. So can you please not let me on and get off to have a cigarette and a chat with your fellow bus drivers, because I have to be at college at 9:00am, not leaving the bus station at 9:00am. If you arrive at a bus station, driving a bus, in a bus drivers uniform, my general assumption is that you’re a bus driver. Either drive me to college, or it wont be lung cancer you die of.

I hate all of you, every single one of you, that get up and start walking to the front of the bus before the bus has stopped. I swear to God, you know, and I know, and everyone else knows, when the bus stops, and you are stood in the middle of the isle like the dumb-ass you are, you are going to fly forward and look like a dick. So don't fumble around, embarrassed by your near trip, stop. Just stop, or I will put my leg out next time and laugh when you fall. Just wait, like normal people, for the bus to stop.

Oh, and you with the blue rinse perm. It's freezing outside. I have pushed myself to the back of the bus, so that the warmth of the engine can unfreeze my buttocks, and by doing so I am putting others at risk of being hit but my very heavy and very large laptop bag. So if you're hot, sit at the front where the door opens and closes now and then, or take off one of your three hundred layers of clothing. Don't get on, sit in front of me, and open the window. Next time you do this, I will have to shove your baby blue umbrella down your wrinkly old throat.

Kathy

First and foremost, learn to spell; u is spelt you, so on and so forth. I find it hard to believe that you, a woman who is 29-years-old and still living with her parents, are telling me to get a life, in case you hadn't realised I am at college, getting good grades with good attendance, and as of yet, I haven't dropped out, nor do I plan to. Next summer I will also be going to University, I'm not sure if you can remind me who in our family HASN'T done that. Correct me if I'm wrong but I'm pretty sure that you'd come under that category.

As for growing up, I think, instead of explaining the many ways that I am more mature that you are, despite my age, I think I will just revert back to the last paragraph, I'm sure that holds all of the required information.

I think you'll find I am adult enough to talk about how mean and money grabbing anyone can be. A prime example, I do believe, would be you, for if I remember correctly it is you that used to make your own mother cry because of the hurtful, horrible things you had said.

If we are so selfish then why is it that we have Nan so much, why did I used to come over and work for next to nothing, or sometimes nothing at all, why is it that I was the one that worked on hand and foot to make life for your ill mother a little easier, while you only came around when you needed to drop the dog off, or pick the dog up, or if you needed something. Perhaps we don't have Nan here as much as she is over there, but do you want to know why that is? She lives there, you know, how when someone lives somewhere they tend to stay there a while. If you want to talk about how selfish we are then perhaps you should ask one of your other aunties or uncles to care for her, I'm sure they'll accept her with open, warm, loving arms, then again perhaps not.

I mean, hell, if we're so selfish then perhaps we should live up to that accusation and just not have Nan over at all, of course, that’s not what we want, we love her to pieces, but if we are so selfish then we should come first in all cases, including this one.

The dream world is lovely, I'll send you a post card, well when I have the time, and unlike some people I care for and look after my mother, yes that’s right! Auntie Faf and Uncle Derek aren't the only ill ones in the world! It must come as such a shock.

Family is just a word, in fact it is meaningless entirely to me, friendship on the other hand is something I hold close and dear to my heart and something I take good care in not ruining, friendship between me and my mother, me and Auntie Faf and me and Nan are golden to me, in fact they are better, it's like all the sparkling jewels and all the platinum our wonderful world had ever created. Implying that family means something to me implies that you do also, because while you are my family, and we were once close, as of now you are dead to me.

Sincerely, Beth.