I told my boyfriend of four years last night that we needed to take a break so that he could figure out what he wanted.

I feel miserable. I'm the one that did the breaking up. So why am I also the one that feels shitty? Shouldn't it be the other way around? Shouldn't I be the triumphant one?

Nothing ever turns out like you think it would.

We were (have been?) together for 4 1/2 years. That's a fucking long time. Like more than 20% of my entire life, I've been with this person. And he's not sure if he wants to continue being with me. I'm not sure why he stopped loving me. Or maybe stopped loving me.

Let the world spin madly on.

So I wake up this morning, and I physically cannot make myself get out of bed. I feel like the world is crashing around me, and no one seems to notice, or hear me screaming for help. Least of all the person that I want to hear me the most.

Everything is revolving, moving around me, and all is well, and it's a beautiful day, but inside I'm boiling, and angry for allowing him to hurt me like this. For letting him hold my heart, my fate, in his stupid little hand.

The worst part is that he just doesn't care. Everything is the same for him. He isn't sitting alone on his couch, crying his eyes out and typing out blog entries that no one will ever read. He's at a friends house. With a ton of our friends. Not crying. He is fine. And I am falling apart. I want him to know, to know how he's breaking my heart, how my life is lying of the floor in a million little pieces that I don't even have the energy to begin picking up, least of all put back together in some semblance of normalcy. But I also don't want him to know how much I want him. Or, rather, how much I want him to love me again.

I thought I'd be singing a different tune by now. But this song about you keeps coming out.