I should really finish reviewing nucluear magnetic spectroscopy for my quiz on thursday.

But, I can't stop thinking about other things. Just other things in general. Nothing in particular. Just other things.

The kind of things that you use an illegitimate reason for procastination. The kind of reasons that are bullshit and are no reason to procastinate. But, you use it anyway because you can argue that procastination is just procastination all the same. Doesn't matter what else you're busying yourself with as long as it's not the thing that you're suppose to be doing.

And I can't bring myself to talk about him.

That one boy.

You remember.

That one.

The one that this entire diary is about.

I don't have the guts. the balls. the heart. to talk about him.

It's just that you spend five years believing in romance and happily ever-afters. And all the bullshit teenage drama. And the almost "let's get marrieds..." and the "we'll grow old togthers..." Somewhere between the yelling, the bitching, the broken hearts, the kissing and making up, and the making love.

You forget how much time has passed. And how much you've changed. Because you met freshman year in high school and five years later you're a sophomore year in college. And things are just different.

Because, you forget that people change and grow up. And if proximity is not on the top of the list - you tend to grow apart. And become two completely different people. With different views on life. And different lives.

And the feeling is a mixture of nostalgia, love, and guilt. And all of it only makes sense to those who really know who both are. And none of it will make sense to anyone else even if you tried your best to explain. And since, EVERYONE else has their own lives. And no one has time to listen. It only makes sense to write it here. To put it in digital font on an online diary that has only recorded my relationship with Mr. Hazel-eyes, Goofer, Romeo... whatever his name is ... up until now.

All we do is fight now.

FIGHT. FIGHT. FIGHT.

Over. And over. And over again.

And I'm just tired of it. I'm just tired of hearing it. And fighting it. And putting up with it. I just want it to end. And have some relief. And just move on.

Five years. And move on.

But, I'd feel like a traitor to love.

I think that's one of the damn good reasons why I have a hard time letting go. I considered myself a romantic and now ... for what? Shit? That all we went through was bullshit? And none of was even worth it? Because we ended up not being together in the end?

Because people fall in and out of love everday?

He and I were suppose to better than that. Break the rules about long-distance relationships. Be the kind of role model of romance that's hardly ever seen in the sexually-driven faux romances today. We were suppose to better than all of that.

It was suppose to be US against the WORLD.

GOD. FIVE YEARS.

Five years. First love. First everything. We were suppose to be the kind of story that you'd tell to unmarried men and woman in their thirties - to make them jealous and give them hope. The kind of story that still makes you believe in true love.

Five Years on September 2, 2007.
GOD. We were so close.

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