I said "let's get drunk and break things!" because that's what being in therapy makes me want to do. Asking her to get drunk and break things with me though, was analogous to making a list of everything I was wearing that day and posting it on my refridgerator for future use; I knew full well what would happen, I just didn't want to admit it. She looked at me with this demonic intensity, because she is as angry as me, and she said "you're a bad influence on me," all coy like, so I wanted to kiss her.

Back up. I'm not in love with her, and I never was. Infatuated? Yes. In my disfunctional way, I wanted her around all the time, dreamed about her, the whole universe seemed suddenly to be concentrated on her body, on herself, nothing meant anything except in the context of her. This was an immensly healthy state of affairs, especially in light of her having a fabulous new girlfriend. It lead to conversations in which she would say deeply evil things like "Don't worry, I'm sure at some point you'll find someone who appreciates your cleavage as much as me... if that's even possible."

It lead to my being alternately angry at myself, at her, at God, at fate, at myself, etc. I was ready to boycott the world, break myself on sharp rocks, run around screaming 'till my heart burst from exaustion. A mess, and I take full responsibility for objectifying her silly and not letting go of the idea that she and I could be together despite the fact that she was in a functional relationship and seriously happy. I give her the responsibility of leading me on, consciously or unconsciously for a week overlapping two separate girlfriends, for fucking me without considering how I would take it, and generally being a fucking tease about it afterwards.

So then, there we were, and I had the brilliant idea that we should get drunk and break shit. We split a twelve-pack of Labatts and despite having 12 empty glass bottles at the end of the night and maybe a little sexual tension, we decided, fuck the bottles, we'd break each other. Only with words, because damn it all, we were just a couple of girls.

Hours later I realized how alegorical the scene must have looked. We both had on t-shirts that labeled the part we were to play in the ensuing bullshit melodramatic dialogue: My t-shirt said "Psycho". Hers said "Playboy". No shit. Truth is stranger than fiction.

So I'll skip the parts where I would make a harmless comment and she'd turn it around to attack me, I'll skip the part about my asking her to kill me, and cut to the part that I can't forget. The part where I told her what I actually believe, that we had sex in the first place just because. Because she wanted to break away from her girlfriend and I was a good excuse, because she felt like it at the time, because she enjoyed seeing me helpless. Because she wanted to make everything go her way regardless of how I felt. I had that feeling all along, but that was the first I'd mentioned it. She just kept changing the rules according to her convenience. At first that made sense, she had a girlfriend and I was single and if she couldn't bring herself to leave that relationship for me then fine. But I didn't want to be a convenient fuck. I've been there, and it leads to situations like this one (where you feel like you're not sure who to kill first...). When she left her girlfriend I thought (naively) that I had a chance, but she swapped me out with someone else before I knew what was happening. So I told her what I'd been thinking all this time, and it's only my side of what was going on, and I have absolutely no claim to her affections, but there's no way around my feeling used.

So I said my piece and left. She followed me to the stairs and dragged me back into her room by the collar.

"How could you say that!?"

She raged at me, and I couldn't look her in the face as she punched the wall beside it and slammed the closet and I barely had the voice to say "Because it's true," and she finally let me go because we were both wasted and I couldn't look at her or speak.

At the time, the pitch and anger in her voice sounded to me like a confirmation of the worst of my suspicions. Like she'd planned it all, or at least acted consciously like a fucking todler, trying to force everything work her way. Looking back on the scene though, I identify with her. I've alienated people I genuinely care about and used them in similar ways totally unconsciously and there is nothing in the world more horrifying than coming to your senses and realizing that you've fucking done it again. I wonder how much she meant to hurt me and how much she actually liked me but didn't know exactly how to express or deal with it. The only trouble is I think it would kill me to find out.