Bad milk joke

I should be reading. I should be writing. I should be doing. Doing more. Thinking about more. Instead it is always her and me. Me and her. It's been 3 weeks of what ifs. What if she said it was all a mistake. What if she realized it was me. What if she wasn't feeling any happier.

But she is happier. It isn't me. She's happier it isn't me.

From a distance I can't cloud her vision with questions. From a distance I can't add nervousness after every epic moment in their lives. From a distance the only words she has to hear from me are words of adoration; anger doesn't last long or travel far.  Anger hits the page and has no purpose anymore, like all shells. It carries the messy yolk to its target and then vanishes upon contact. The yolk, that which lies beneath my fragile anger, embarrassment and anguish, covers the target of my frustration in this mess.  I've covered her in much yolk. We see just at this moment that even the yolk of my demise has no purpose.  Yolk is not what she wears when I dream. Yolk is not what I wished for her to wear on our wedding day, nor our honeymoon. Given, I did  imagine her hair to be a mess that morning in the delivery room, but not like this. So this action, these actions of angry word hurling, they serve no purpose. She already hurts for herself, she will not hurt for me.

The anguish and suffering of never seeing you trying to love me again is futile, it has only one end. I must end this.

I must read. I must write. I must do more, think about more. There is more to life than me and you. Specifically there is the me and the you to deal with. I am lost in ambiguity: moral, religious, professional, romantic, physical, epistemological, you name it. I need to strictly redefine myself. I must. Just please know, please, that I really spent the last couple years defining myself as a part of your life. Maybe, when you think about it, that's why you never noticed me trying to define you as a part of mine.

All the same, the 1% of me that has no trace of you has now become 2%, just now by saying it. How could there be any girl who realizes it was me if there were no part of me that was actually me. Why, if a girl fell for me now, with all of you in me, she would have to be homo. Bad joke? I know, I had to strip this post of its grandiose meaning, its epic proportions of sheer devotedness to you, its utter desire to make you want to be with me. It's a poor start, but a start. I'm full of poor starts, huh?

Get it? 1%, 2%; homo?