50th post.
this is the longest time i have ever stuck with any one of my diaries or blogs.
and you can imagine how long the others lasted when i say that 50 posts are akin to me practically marrying my blog.
i get bored very easily;
fickle hardly begins to cover it.
unfortunately, the happy dogmark of fifty posts has only more teenage angst to be dealt with.
issue one.
seriously, how hard is it to tell me what you're angry about, when you're angry with me?
it hurts me when you get annoyed with me and snap at me, and i really have no clue as to what i've done to put you in such a bad mood.
you say that there's no point to telling me or talking about it because you get over it.
but my point is that if you just tell me what irks you, you'll have nothing to get over in the first place.
then you say that you don't feel like its your place to tell you what you like or not like about your behaviour.
this is about compromise.
we live together.
if i piss you off every other day, how are we to get along?
i know you say that so far this year, you've only been annoyed with me twice.
but believe me, its incredibly painful when one of the people closest to you growls at you 'don't talk to me.'
please try to understand.
tasha and i had an idyllic friendship from that aspect; we became so accustomed and used to what the other liked/disliked that despite our viciously bitchy fights in the early years of our friendship, by the time we were in form four we rarely had reason to be annoyed with the other.
why can't you be like that sometimes?
(jen thinks its incedibly sweet that we argued over this - she thinks we sound like an old married couple. pam doesn't want to tell me what i do that annoys her because she thinks it would hurt me, and i want her to tell me what upsets her so that i won't hurt her. jen has a maliciously badly-timed sense of humour.)
issue two.
i am not your friend.
really.
you might think that because i bear with you and sometimes smile at you in corridors that i'm somehow okay with you trespassing into my personal space without invitation.
how dare you come to our apartment without informing us, without being invited, without asking us, then ringing us from ground floor and telling us to bring you up?
its our apartment.
not yours.
and we are not your bosom buddies for you to merely inform us of your presence and see it fit to make us fetch you up like the paid footservants we seem to be to you.
so leave me alone.
issue three.
is wholly to do with my incompetence.
the end.
