This fucking sucks

Yeah. Here I am, sitting at my desk, Blink-182's "I Miss You" on repeat, scarfing down the last of the Boston creme pie, opening and closing our chat window, wishing to God that I could talk to you.

If I do not message you, I'll feel slightly empty when I lie down to go to sleep. I'll end up thinking of what could have been said, what should have been said, what I wish I could say and what cannot be put into words. I will be awake until after midnight, pining, and pining, and pining.

However, if I do message you, two things could happen:
You could just ignore whatever I say. That seems more likely than anything. If that were to happen, I'd be kicking myself for the rest of my waking hours, wondering why I was so stupid as to contact you in the first place.
The more hopeful outcome would be for you to respond. Kindly or unkindly, at least you acknowledged my presence. That alone has become a rarity.

We both know there is still much left to discuss. Our communication was cut off so abruptly, so naturally the feeling is similar to quitting Zoloft cold-turkey. You should know, right?

I miss having someone that can inspire a light at the end of the tunnel. I don't know where the hell I'm going in life anymore. At one point, I wanted to go somewhere, somewhere that you had already been, and it helped so much to have that knowledgeable guidance and companionship to fall back on when I became confused. Now I feel as though my head will explode at any moment.

Now "2AM" by Anna Nalick came on my Spotify playlist and I'm in tears. Damn it, Anna Nalick.

I remember everything you've ever said to me. It all meant more than you could ever know, and I wish I could tell you, but I am literally forbidden to. I'm trapped inside my head with all of this shit you left behind, all this shit I left unspoken. Who else could I express these things to? Where is all of this thought supposed to go? It's all worthless, just like this blog post.

I was never one to grovel, but here I am. I fucking miss you. You will never end up reading any of this and I don't blame you. Why should you care?

Now, the Boston creme pie is gone and these tears are burning the dry skin on my face...

I never thought I'd have a chance to visit Hell.