Oh baby, don't feel so bad.

Last night I sobbed up a big wad of depression and phlegm between bashing away at my library science homework, pissing blue Gatorade Zero, and learning Italian from Wally Lamb's I Know This Much is True. Oh and wanting my mother.

But I wear tighty whities.

I wish I could say that's not a typical Sunday night for me. But it is. It was even when I spent the weekends at BF's place, because when I went back to the dorm Sunday nights I still remembered exactly how he felt next to me in bed and had to wait the longest out of any point in the week to feel it again.

Somehow this weekend has punched me in the heart with all the post-breakup sadness and regret and loneliness that I didn't feel the first two weekends. The shit I thought I was past because, hey, wound is scabbed over by now, yes? I always did have a bad habit of scratching scabs.