Life is a Cabaret

Dear...great, I don't have anyone to address this to...awesome feeling. Win! 

Whatever.

Doctor Deyncourt keeps journals. This is totally not my thing but I figured why not try since, obviously, yoga, meditation, dancing, singing and drinking and drinking did not prevent me from running today. Drunk running? Not recommended btw. It sounds funnier than it is. Although maybe I can start a new event---New York Half Drunk Marathon. What? Just saying. It could be a thing.

I don't really have anything to really write. Just a hundred questions. And images I can't shake yet. Anyway, here goes--

I feel like I lost something that I never had in the first place. 
Is it normal to want to see him again? 
He still knew more about me than anyone else even though I only saw him for a short time. How messed up is that? 
I hate him. I hate him. 
I should hate him. 
I hate him. It's ok to write it. I. Hate. Him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. But, actually, I really don't hate him. I just hurt.
But I don't. Hate him, that is.
Does that mean there's something wrong with me? 
Was he disappointed in me? Why does it matter? It doesn't matter. Then why does it matter?

How can I be talking about several people at once two people at once and this still makes sense?

This is lame. I'm sure it works for some peeps but I've got work to do. We're installing a new security system at the club today and the marble finally came in to replace the floor downstairs where the blood browned the tiles. I don't know, maybe once I don't have to look at it anymore, it might make some things a bit better.