Six months into the past.

"Crawled foetal in stinking, cat haired sheets, weeping onto the already long dampened pillow. Lover You Should've Come Over was playing on repeat on the long abused ipod, along with some piteous Smiths albums and other cliches more painful than the sentiment at hand. Even the pity in the cats seemingly naive eyes was burning into the matted hair that lay strewn across the bed, neglected since the reawakening of that itching wound that's heartbreak, the scab that tears off easily to reveal a greater wound.
Three weeks spent sobbing into Kleenex, moping in pyjamas and watching daytime tv trash with your best friend since you were seven. Occasionally you go for walks on the beach, in the town that you loathe where the grey sky cruelly and defiantly pisses down wherever you might follow."

 

I'm so glad not to be in love anymore.

 P.S. Charlie Brooker's latest episode of How TV Ruined Your Life contains some pretty accurate representations of my sentiments. If you haven't see it already, I recommend you watch it.