This is a handwritten journal entry I scrawled on a school notepad sometime in April 2012. I found it tonight inside a suitcase, buried underneath my golf gloves and summer scarves.
"Hey. It's two one Pittsburgh."
He's a good one I've got, everyone keeps telling me not to mess it up. So why have I been feeling like this? I don't know. Maybe it's adulthood; The Stones were right -- you can't always get what you want? I miss flirting and passion. I don't like hating every thing he does, being too tired to say anything. Honestly. I'm really too tired. The women I know tell me it gets worse. So what the hell am I doing? I'm getting married? I hate the way he drives, cooks, cleans, entertains. I hate how frustrated he gets, the way he grits his teeth when he's mad at me. But he'll help me with money, bills, a home. My parents like him, my Godfather even. I'm having trouble. I feel like I'll regret these thoughts but for now I just can't stomach any of it.
I stay quiet. I contemplate. I listen to the songs I used to. I think too much. I daydream, vividly and wrong. Who knows. I'm getting restless and I never expected this to happen with him. I can't stand to talk to him, everything is a snippy comment. "Could you lock the car," and I get a dirty look. I hate it, painfully, deeply, but what am I going to do? I daydream. I imagine and feel the way my body wakes up. The only place I feel comfortable is my daydream, the only one really, repeating. I hate not being able to talk. I hate making a ridiculous fool of myself. The drive is gone, the thoughts disappointing; uncomfortable in my own skin, daydreaming always. I don't know what I'm doing, this happy life. I wish it would just stop. I can't even think. I think I was raised to announce scores. The man I'm marrying couldn't care less; the friend who calls me Wifey does but I'm not going to.
"Yeah, they've been up three oh and lost it."
So have I.