I don't think he knew how much I liked him. Now I don't mean "oh my god he's sooo hot!!" liked him. I mean, genuinely liked him, as a person. And although I might not have made that quite so clear because I didn't really talk to him -- all that much -- I did listen to him. And I liked what I heard.

I don't think he knew how much what happened really hurt me. Because I don't ever make that sort of thing very public. Not even to my friends. Well, I mean...sure...I'd tell my friends a little...but I would save everything up from the day and go home and just - blah. No energy. All my energy was used to cover it up. I don't know why I did that. That was pretty stupid of me, now that I think of it.

And do you know what? Nothing seemed to work out for him either. He got stepped on a lot, too. By girls that in retrospect were really not that extraordinary; but I would've done anything to have him look at me just once the way he would look at them. So there was irony there. The rejectee becomes the rejector. Maybe the both of us are just doomed to be miserable. Or maybe it's just me.

(Brief optimistic, assuring interuption: NO! I am NOT doomed to be miserable. There is nothing wrong with me! I am a well balanced, fairly goodlooking, normally happy, funny kind of person. Yes. In the words of Stuart Smalley: I am good enough, smart enough, and doggone it - people like me!)

I was discussing this whole matter with Sami today in French, because we both had similar situations last year, with similar people. We were saying how last year's broken hearts really screwed us up, for the same reason. Because now, no matter who I get involved with, I always think, "yeah, he's alright...but he's not as good as [xxx]." Because he was really good.

It's just never going to be that good again.

God. I hate it.

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